


A Case of You

by shretl (girlundone)



Series: A Girl Needs A Gun These Days [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, Mild Language, No Plot/Plotless, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychology, Sexual Content, Smut, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 76,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl
Summary: She was a case he couldn't crack and he never wanted to stop investigating.Or, a series of interwoven one-shots exploring the relationship between Garrus Vakarian and Commander Shepard.Amazing artwork by Beth Ad Astra! Go inside and see! (Chapter 1 and 17)





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for beta'ing and encouraging this six and a half year old work-in-the-making to be published.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the amazing [Beth Ad Astra!](https://bethadastra-art.tumblr.com/) Check out her [tumblr!](https://bethadastra-art.tumblr.com/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/66273628@N07/41554907675/in/dateposted-public/)


	2. Kryptonite

**The Citadel, 2186**

He found her in the empty bathtub. It didn’t really surprise him. She never liked the Citadel and Anderson’s gift filled her with a superstitious dread that he was hastening his own death by giving her his apartment. She simply found the smallest space and curled up in it.

He knew she was exhausted, but it was more than that. It was the kind of tired no sleep could relieve. There was an old turian saying ‘A body can be tired, but when a spirit needs rest, it is time to build a pyre.’  He didn’t want to see that happen.

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

She dressed mechanically, like a middle manager on Monday morning. Her hair had grown long enough again to pull back into a ponytail. It curled and swung jauntily and he resisted the urge to tug it. She didn’t look like she was in any particular mood to be teased.

She didn’t say anything for the longest time, just stared out the side of the skycar and almost meekly following him toward the Presidium Towers. But then, she slowed as familiar looking blossoms came into view. “Hey. Isn’t that where we first met?”

He stopped next to her and surveyed the rebuilt landscape. They had been painstaking in details, from the transplanted cherry trees to the gleaming, grandiose steps.  “Well, rebuilt. Hey. Why did you turn around?”

She seemed lost in thought, her eyes on the steps leading to the Council Chambers. A trio of salarians came down the steps hurriedly, disturbing the air and causing several blossoms to fall. She blinked and turned to see him looking down at her expectantly. “What?”

“You turned around,” he repeated patiently.

There is a ghost of a smile in that incorrigible corner of her mouth, “And you told me the Council was waiting.”

His mandibles twitched at the memory. “Yeah.”  When she didn’t move, he put a hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing, you know.”

She looked away, blinking up at the artificial sunlight, but he knew what she was seeing. Smoke and Saren, twisted beyond saving; Sovereign threatening to end the lives of everyone on the Citadel. Shepard had been criticised for her decision to concentrate on the Reaper, blamed for the deaths of the Council Members, and it still filled Garrus with righteous rage. He squeezed her shoulder before she could recriminate herself. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

They linked hands after that and if people stared, they both chose not to notice. Silence with Shepard was never uncomfortable, but Garrus couldn’t help but steal looks her way as they came upon a side entrance to the Presidium Theatre. He often said it as of late, but he was worried about her, and not just as a euphemism to disguise his deeper feelings.

He let go of her hand to access his omni-tool, causing Shepard to raise a brow and gesture at the location. “How many regulations do you intend to break in this shore leave?”

One of his mandibles fanned out in a smirk. “Just a few more.” The panel turned green and the door cycled open. “This way.”

Since he had already taken her to the top of the Presidium, Shepard seemed to find no reason to question why they were scaling ladders to a high, enclosed catwalk above the stadium seating with a prime view of centre stage.

Garrus climbed into the makeshift sniper perch first, then helped Shepard up, making room for her to sit next to him on the deep ledge.

As though in reward, a hint of amusement curved her mouth. “Is this the Fortress of Solitude?”

Garrus put an arm around her waist, leaning back against the bare drywall behind them. “Haha. Very funny. That was where you found me on Omega. Besides, isn’t that the other hero?”

Shepard turned to him with the first real amount of animation he saw in her that day, “You read Batman!”

He proceeded to perfect his look of smug nonchalance. “I had a lot of free time recently— “

She curled in his side and looked up at him through her lashes, “I thought that was all spent doing ‘research.’”

His gloating could not be contained in subvocals alone. “You were _not_ complaining about that research last night. Anyway, it’s amazing how much spare time I had, even with the Reapers and impending destruction of the galaxy, just from one annoying little creature being gone.”

“You were _not_ annoyed after I hauled your ass off Menae,” she shot back with a fond look.

Garrus eyed her in a quelling manner. “I brought you up here for a reason. Will you be quiet already and let me tell you?”

Shepard straightened up and snapped a salute. “Yes, sir, Advisor Vakarian, sir!”

He gave her a look that could scorch a sun. “Oh. That one we’re going to come back to, later.”

She leaned back into him, looking through her lashes once more. “Or now...”

He tilted his head up as though considering the idea. “You know, I hear the Skyllian flu is going around the refugee barracks. Maybe I can get a batarian to cough on me.” It was a well-known fact that the Skyllian flu affected different species in different ways, notably causing laryngitis to both sets of voice boxes in turians.

Shepard pulled away, looking absolutely gutted. “That is the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. And I’ve had a lot of mean things said to me.”

He laughed and pulled her close, “Come here,” and began stroking her hair as she settled her head against his cowl.

“I used to eat lunch here sometimes. Before, you know. And then I was surprised to find it standing after. So, I watched the construction. Came to answer emails.” Shepard opened her mouth, obviously about to remark on his rightfully earned reputation as a terrible correspondent. “Oh, hush. I know.”

Still, she laughed lightly into his jacket. “You used to send me those awful playlists.”

Garrus made a dismissive sound. Everyone knew Shepard’s taste in music was crap. “They were _not_ awful.”

She was not deterred. “I couldn’t get them out of my head for days. Earworms! And always, always, in a firefight, one of those stupid asari pop songs would go right through my head.”

He couldn’t resist nuzzling her head fondly. “And you had to sing it.”

He felt her mouth curve up against him. “Of course, I had to sing it. How else do you get rid of an earworm?”

He decided to ruin the moment by ruffling her already mussed hair. “When you find out, tell me. I’ve got this pesky pyjack problem and could use some advice.”

Shepard jabbed him between the plates above his waist. “You’re lucky you’re so devastatingly handsome.”

He grunted, then looked mighty pleased with himself. “Don’t I know it.”

Shepard then brought him back down to atmosphere, though she did couch it with an inordinately affectionate look on her face that nearly took his breath away.  “Especially since it offsets the bad loner aspect of your charming personality.”

Garrus tried to rearrange his features back into an arrogant visage, but it faltered under that look. When Shepard shone on those she loved, it left them blinded in return. “I thought you liked that about me,” he returned in attempted recovery.

She wasn’t scolding, but rather concerned. “Hiding yourself away to eat lunch alone in a sniper perch, those two years on Omega, not even talking to your sister?”

He jostled her just slightly, aware of how high up they were. “That is what I’ve been trying to get to, but _someone_ insists on interrupting.”

As if on orders, she obediently tucked her head against him once more and shut her mouth.

“I wasn’t hiding myself away. I missed the mission. I was bored at C-Sec. Waiting, endlessly waiting for the Spectre program.” He curled the end of her loosened ponytail around his fingers. “Did I ever thank you for your recommendation letter?”

Her answer was airy. “It must have gone missing with all those emails.”

He didn’t take the bait, but fiddled with the curling strands. “Well, actually…”

She stiffened, alert, craning her neck up to him. “What?”

Suddenly, Garrus wasn’t sure if he could go through with telling her this story. Sure, the taboo subjects of her lost two years and Omega had become less of a minefield for them, but it didn’t make talking about it any easier. “That’s the thing. I was sitting here, avoi— _ducking_ the rookie I was supposed to mentor. They thought it’d be cute to assign me a human. What is it with your people and cat vids?”

Shepard groaned, relaxing a little against him. “Ugh, don’t ask me. I don’t understand that, either. Tali seems quite enamoured with them, though.”

He chuckled fondly,” Heh. I can see that.” Then, clearing his throat, he went on, “Anyway, I was sitting here, right here, queuing up your last email about geth stalkers—"

As if on cue, she shuddered and his subvocals hummed in confirmation. “Yeah, I could _see_ you doing that as I read it. And a certain human stalker—"

She interrupted with a huff. “He ordered steak, you know.  Steak and beer. Do you know how much steak costs on the Citadel these days? And did he offer to pay?”

He tried to level a steely gaze her way, but she was so irate that it made his mandibles twitch. “Steak and beer, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

She tried to stifle a grin, pressing a kiss onto his mandible. Then she leaned against him and tried to look contrite. “Okay. I’m quiet now. I swear.”

They grinned at each other for a long moment, but his faded first, remembering why they were here. He fidgeted, piecing words to begin. “Maybe… I don’t know…”

She curled into him, stroking his arm encouragingly, soothing. He heaved a heavy sigh and soldiered on. “I could always see you, hear you, when I read your emails. And I’m pretty sure when this all gets turned into a vid—because you know it will—the music will swell and there will be a montage—" He interrupted himself, before she could. “Yeah, we know you love montages in vids set to horrible music.” He could feel her grin, warm and tender against his cowl. “Of me, presumably grief-stricken, heart-broken, determined to embark on the most complicated, ineffective, and drawn-out suicide attempt the galaxy has ever seen—"

Shepard stilled and stiffened, daring to look up at him, but still he went on. “But that’s not what happened. I liked you, you know, respected your authority, admired your position…” When the stricken look remained on her face, he looked away and swallowed visibly. “You were supposed to make a joke there about a terrible pun.”

She was still and sombre. He cleared his throat and swallowed again.  “Ah, uh, well, I did. You know. Respect and admire you. No one’s ever yelled at me for taking a shot and then complimented the technique. And you gave advice that didn’t make me want to claw my plates off. You made sense. You didn’t talk down to anyone. You never forced your opinions, but sought others. I thought, well, if I’m ever in command, I’d like to be like that.”

She spoke up then, quietly but firmly. “I was so impressed with you. On Menae. Even Omega.”

Garrus scoffed at the very idea. “Come on. Omega was a—"

“Clusterfuck of epic proportions,” she finished smoothly, pressing her forehead against his mandible. “But you owned it. You took responsibility. Not a lot of people do that in their daily lives, let alone in leadership. And on Menae…” She took his face in her hands so he looked her in the eye.  “I was so proud of you. Am still. Always.”

His subvocals throbbed with embarrassment, and he glanced down at the chasm beneath them. It seemed less terrifying than living up her vision of him. “Well, as I was saying, I was given a good example to follow. And,” he drew this word out in that way he had, “since we’re being honest here—for posterity, of course— I also _liked_ you. Which, well, I was in denial about.” With this, he chanced a sheepish look her way. “Still being honest here. You were this very inspiring and very perplexing squishy little human with an annoying habit of catching me off guard all of the time. Which also drove me crazy because I was a good investigator and I just couldn’t figure you out. And then it was on Virmire—before… before everything really. We—you, Tali, and me, were ambling along, really, like we all knew what was going to happen and were trying to delay the inevitable. And you stopped dead in front of us—I was sure you saw or heard something, but you shook your head like you knew what I was thinking, stretched your arms out and put your face to the sun and said ‘all the planets we dropped on should be like this.’ And Tali—"

Shepard’s voice was rueful but amused. “She was so upset. She never saw a sunburn before.”

Garrus’ mandibles drooped in surprise. “You remember this?”

Her smile couldn’t be more exasperated or adoring.  She shook her head, as though to question how he could doubt it. “Of course, I remember this.”

“I can’t really say I had seen one, either. In person, at least. But it was across here,” He reached out to trace a talon along her nose, “and here,” then up the sharp line of her cheekbone, lingering there, “like markings, and your eyes were so green and you said—

She leaned closer, into his touch. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

He cupped her face in his hot palm. “But the radiation—"

She mirrored his movements, tracing his colony marks first. “So, I’ll get a suit, like Tali’s.”

He too leaned into her touch as her hand caressed his face. “It wouldn’t fit.”

They touched foreheads then, and he thought she was going to kiss him, but instead, she breathed out, “Compliments will get you everywhere, Detective Vakarian.”

His mandibles flared under her hand and her cheeks moved up under his. “Yeah. I can’t really say I didn’t think about the way you looked at me, the way you sounded, after that. And, well, I’ve told you about turian ships, but I also knew humans were different about that sort of thing, and—again, honestly—if you wanted to ah, test my reach at that point, I’m not sure I would have said yes. I was still trying to wrap my head around finding you, well… “

She leaned back a bit, trying to look forbidding, but her eyes were still too warm. “Fuckable?”

He huffed a laugh at that. “No. I mean, well, you were ‘fuckable’ when you yelled at me for shooting that merc in Dr. Michel’s office and then telling me I was a damn good shot. Fuckable isn’t a good measure for turians.”

She arched a coy brow. “Even bad ones?”

He leaned forward to purr in her head. “Especially bad ones.” But then he grew serious once more.  “No, it was that I didn’t just want to fuck you.” Now, once more, he had to look away. “I _cared._ That was scarier than sentient ships intent on our doom.”

He could definitely hear the grin in her voice. “Another lovely compliment from my boyfriend.”

Garrus couldn’t resist. He nipped at her ear this time. “Hush. I can still get a batarian to cough on me.”

She pulled away playfully, then rested her head on his cowl once more. “Bad, bad, bad turian.”

His talons found her hair again. She reached up and loosened it from its binding, and he scratched at her scalp. She melted into his side. “Where was I? So, I liked you but I doubt I would have admitted it even with STG interrogation tactics. I had myself pretty reassured that it was some ingrained, natural response to an attentive, attractive leader. I was still also in denial about being a bad turian, you see.”

She made a sound of half-hearted protest, too relaxed with his ministrations to do more.

“And, in that line of thought, when half the Citadel fell on you—"

She groaned, and it was a sound that went straight through him. He cupped the back of her neck, muffling her retort with his jacket. “It wasn’t half the Citadel. You always say that.”

“Sorry,” he rejoined, then corrected himself with exaggerated care. “Half the _Presidium_ fell on you and we were all pretty sure you were dead, it was natural to feel like heart-stopping terror. Because no one would be happy if their commander died.” He interrupted himself with a reminiscent laugh that made her snuggle against him. “Well, that’s not true. There was a recon mission where parties would have been thrown if that happened, but that’s beside the point. The mission ended, I missed you, sure, but I wasn’t commiserating with General Septimus at Chora’s Den, either. I missed the action, I missed the excitement. Cuffing dealers and shutting down illegal gambling rings wasn’t cutting it. The waitlist for Spectre training was over a year. And I mentioned Pallin decided it’d be cute for me to mentor human rookies, right? By the way, is there some kind of rule about Bob or Rob and Steve?”

Shepard brow furrowed against him. “I… don’t know?”

Garrus’ talons moved back to her scalp. “The names,” he explained patiently. “Bob or Rob and Steve. There’s that human vidstar duo, Steve’s husband, and this guy assigned to me was Bob, actually, and _his_ husband was Stefan, but it sounds similar…”

She reminded him very much of their furry pet right now, curled up into his side as he tangled his talons in her hair, but he chose not to divulge this. “Oh. That is weird.”

“Anyway. I was sitting here, actually replying to your geth-slash-human stalker opus—where’d you find the time to write such long emails, by the way? I always wondered.”

She poked at a gap in his abdominal plates for the second time that day, not lifting her head. “You. Are stalling.” He snatched her hand and held it in his free one.  “I didn’t write them in one go. I’d keep a tab open and add to it every so often. Once in a firefight, actually.”

He knew exactly which one she was talking about, drawling, “Crap, that one about the rachni and incendiary rounds in—?”

She laced their fingers together in that way they had long since learned how to do and didn’t forget despite six months apart. “Yeah, it was too funny. I had good cover, the geth were mostly dead, and I was afraid I’d forget in decom. Besides, I knew you’d get a kick out of it.”

He chuckled at the image of it even as he sighed at the memory of what he was about to say. “I am stalling.” With one last pause and swallow, he trudged on. “Well, I was here and my omni-tool pinged. I really wanted to ignore it, but I had this feeling—I just knew it was bad news. I thought it was from Sol about my mother and I wanted to ignore it, but I already felt like such an ass about the whole thing, shoving all the responsibility on her while I got to play a minor supporting role in the Battle of the Citadel—"

Shepard made a sound of protest, but then stopped herself, surely sensing it was not a time to interrupt because he’d be more than happy to go off-topic once again.

Garrus looked down at their entwined hands, his other slipping from her hair, bracing it beside her as though to keep himself steady. “So, I looked and it was this nothing message. ‘Report to the temporary Presidium C-Sec offices immediately.’ It could have been anything. But I knew it was bad. I guessed it was about my job, maybe I lost my spot on the training list. So, I saved my draft to you, got up, and figured if I walked real slow, maybe whatever it was would work itself out.” At that, he made a rueful, amused sound. “But, uh, that really logical rationale didn’t work. Again, I’m sure the vid will have a scene where I just happen to walk into your Admiral Anderson and there’s no dialogue. Just the screen panning out on a display of grief. But that didn’t happen, either. Instead, I waited about half an hour, climbing out of my plates before Pallin finally called me into his office. Never even got to sit down. He had the honour of becoming the first person I heard tell the same varren-shit story about you dying in a geth attack that became the party line for two years. I think he spent more time reiterating it was need-to-know and I couldn’t talk to anybody—reporters, civilians— and then told me to get back to work.  And I meant to head back to my precinct, but I ended up here again and queued up that damned reply I had to you and I realized then, really, you wouldn’t get it.”

By this time, Shepard had sat up, disengaging her hand from his to wrap her arms around his carapace. “Garrus—"

He shook his head, wanting to look away but not letting himself have the luxury. She had to understand that this was never about her. Not really. “No. No, you don’t get to feel bad right now.”

She was silent, but didn’t loosen her hold as he went on. “I want you to understand… I was upset— I _missed_ you—  but I wasn’t breaking things and scaring people. It was depressing. Either someone at work would ask what you were really like—the press was pretty awful about denouncing you and the Reaper threat—or the—you don’t want to hear this—

Shepard’s voice was as soothing as her hands on him. “It’s okay. Tell me.”

He can’t meet her gaze now. “The memorial service—"

How she could sound so cool and calm, he might never understand. “Jeff told me.”

Garrus cleared his throat and swallowed once more. “Yeah. That was... rough. Oh, thanks for leaving me your HMWSR rifle. Or, well, the idea. I have to admit, I smiled over that.”

“All good soldiers have up-to-date wills.” And if that was said pointedly, it was because Garrus was a good soldier, but terrible with any and all paperwork and most likely, he hadn’t updated his own since the formality of filing one when he joined C-Sec. Then, though, her expression softened. “But, if we’re being honest here, I did update it after we took Sovereign down to add that.”

This time, he had the grace to look contrite. “Such a thoughtful little girlfriend.” His chastened grin quickly led to a more serious arrangement of plates. “Anyway, at some point it stopped being depressing and started making me angry. Not just denying the Reapers, not just making you the fall guy after you served and died so honourably, not just leaving the galaxy open to this threat—all of it. What was the point of arresting a few red sand smugglers if the ring was never taken down? What was the point of following orders if nothing ever changed? I just felt like—” He met her eyes once more. “You believed you could make a difference.  You believed _I_ could make a difference. And I believed—I still believe—we all can. So, I didn’t go to Omega to die. I went to Omega to _live._ It went horribly wrong, but my intent was give my life meaning. Prove I could be the leader I wanted to be. I could meter out justice without tangling with red tape.” He couldn’t maintain that eye contact, though, bowing his head instead. “I was wrong. I screwed up. I regret the lives of my team. They didn’t deserve to die so I could find myself.” And then, as her hand moved to his face once more, he found the strength to look at her as he said, “But—I’m not—I don’t regret trying to make a difference.”

Now, he maneuverer in the small space to put his hands on her shoulders, the way she would for him. “And I know you’re tired—exhausted—I know you don’t want to do this. I know you want to sit here forever—Hell, _I_ want to sit here forever with you—but... we have a job to do. And when it’s over, we’ll come back here, or anywhere, and just _be_.”

Her eyes shone, but Shepard never looked away. Garrus knew that she heard him then, what this long, winding talk was about. He didn’t go to Omega because she died, but he might not be able to go on in this war if she gave up now. It wasn’t that she needed him or he needed her. They needed each other. They weren’t a planet and satellite. They were like those two cherry trees, growing together, entwined side by side, in the Presidium. Partners, equals, shouldering their burdens and celebrating their triumphs together. They could survive on their own, but what a lonely, empty existence that would be.  

He drew her to him again, and she rested her head against his cowl once more. “And when we get bored of that, I’m sure we can find something else to shoot. There’s always something trying to kill you. Flora, fauna, maybe a sentient fungus next?”

Her single laugh was brief and warm against him. They remained like that for a while in the companionable silence.  Their hands shouldn't have fit together, their heart beats shouldn't have synced; nothing felt as natural and familiar as her head on his carapace and his talons in her hair.

“Wait. Hold on.” She disentangled herself from his arms and he immediately felt cold and bereft.

He watched as she produced a combat knife from her boot with all the flourish of a salarian three card monte hustler.  “Now that's just showing off.”

She grinned and deliberately twisted over him, rather than changing her position. It was meant to elicit another quip, he was sure, but as she rose on her knees to apply the knife to the wall, her torso extended invitingly into his vision and couldn't resist sliding a hand along either side of her waist.

“Copping a feel, Detective Vakarian?” she asked lightly, but he could hear the amorous edge to her voice.

The way his mandibles moved could only be described as a leer. “Probable cause. You're armed with a deadly weapon and…” He trailed off as he craned his neck to see what she was doing. “Vandalising the Presidium. What _is_ that?”

She admired her handiwork with a little tilt of her head. With as much precision as her rather cheap knife allowed, she had carved their initials into the wall and encased them in a crude heart.  It was stupid and juvenile, but when she turned her face to him, it was lit in a foolish grin. “Graffiti.” Already feeling the burn of her awkward position, she shifted down, then out, bringing her knee up to her chin to resheath her knife, and added to her list of transgressions.  “Destruction of private property.” As his hands fell from her sides without protest and her knife was secure, she straightened out her legs and leaned back on her hands and went on, “Disturbing the keepers. I think you have more than enough to take me in.” When this litany failed to elicit a response, Shepard turned her face up to him, her mouth opened in a question never to be vocalised.

Garrus was staring at the pictograph, his mandibles drawn in, not tightly but with the faintest flutter. Privately, Shepard had once designated it under The Many Unreadable Expressions of Garrus Vakarian, refiled it as ‘decided against a snarky comeback’ during one of their many conversations in the main battery, and only after their tour of the Omega-4 relay was the final assignation of ‘overcome with emotion’ was applied.

She was about to say it was silly. She was about to ask what bad human vids he watched to know what it meant. But he faced her slowly and deliberately, his eyes two burning hearts of a fire.  She reached out, her curled fingers stroking his scarred mandible. He pulled her close then, pressing her down, his mouth nipping ever-so-lightly at the rising pulse at her throat and each pronounced curve of her collarbone, even as he said, gravelly and silken all at once, “Come here.”


	3. A Sorta Fairytale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Garrus and Shepard meet.

**The Citadel, 2183**

The first time he saw Shepard, she committed a minor crime.

Her fringe—hair—he always got that wrong, was somewhere between copper and gold. Most of the time, whether he found it on a crime scene or was writing a ticket for soliciting without a license, it was artificially coloured, but her skin was startling pale without the opaque yellow undertones that spacers had by virtue of ultraviolet radiation depravation. Must be natural, though damned rare. 

She didn't seem phased by the Citadel, which indicated she was from a large metropolitan centre. Nor did she gawk at the many species or seem very impressed by the variety of recognisable faces milling about. Definitely from a megatropolis. He’d put his credits on Earth, and not Bekenstein, because she was aware of her surroundings in a way that was learned out of survival and not drummed in by training. Kids on Bekenstein were too fortunate to need that skill. His own came out of training.

She was flanked by two humans. One, a male, who seemed overawed by both the Citadel and Commander Shepard, and a female who was eyeing her surroundings, and him, with distrust.

The male spoke first, hesitantly. “I think the Council’s ready for us, Commander.”

He wished her luck and she inclined her head in turn before starting up the stairs to the Council Chambers. Either she studied turian customs or knew some personally. He couldn't be sure.

But then, she turned around.

The turian in him was scandalised by her audacity, but mostly he was impressed. Which was why he barked, loudly and awkwardly, “The Council is waiting!”

Pallin started, looking at him sharply. He tried not to cringe at the pitch of his own subvocals.

But Shepard’s wide, strange mouth curved up asymmetrically. She turned back, slowly, almost leisurely, up the stairs. Her hand stretched out to snatch a cluster of cherry blossoms.

That violated regulation 52-6920, though it was rarely enforced. The fine was a mere 250 credits.

He thought about writing the ticket anyway. Just to see what she would do.

“The audacity of the human to keep the Council waiting.” Pallin grumbled disapprovingly as soon as the trio were out of earshot.

“Yeah,” Garrus agreed, struggling to keep the admiration out of his voice. “Just what I was thinking.”

Pallin shot him another disapproving glare.

 

The second time they met, she yelled at him.

It was a good, clean shot. The merc was dead. He honestly couldn't figure out why she was so upset. 

“What were you thinking? You could have hit the hostage!”

He was, in fact, stunned into candidness. “There wasn't time to think. I reacted! I didn't mean…”

He had never been so tongue-tied in all his life as he was around this strange little human.

Still, she deferred to him when questioning Dr. Michel. That a Spectre candidate so readily conceded authority based on merit was heady in its wonderment.

And really kind of hot.

His voice resonated too loudly again when he asked—begged—insisted to aid in Saren’s capture.

Her mouth did that strange thing again. It was like she was trying with all her effort not to smile, but one corner went up anyway.

 

The third time he saw her, she complimented him.

He had been trying to do too many things at once—tender a resignation, pack his kit, figure out if he should sublet his apartment or try to break his lease, and what, exactly, he was going to tell his family. Sol would understand. She was great that way. But his mother hadn't been feeling well lately. Migraines and muscle spasms, probably nothing to worry about, but it was making her short-tempered and forgetful, and his dad… His dad would be disappointed. He'd want him to come home and talk about it. His plates itched at the thought of a week in some Vorenaii retreat, listening to his father go on about responsibility in a sauna and accountability at the shooting range and, worst of all, droning on at every meal about the importance of a life plan and patience and then pinning him with his self-same eyes and asking him why he broke things off with Rena.

So, he was understandably distracted when he ran into Commander Shepard at C-Sec Headquarters.

“Oh, Commander! I was just settling things here. Uh, with C-Sec.” It took all his strength not to slap his hand over his face. He felt as though he lost the ability to speak like a normal turian being around her.

She was either too polite to draw attention to it or didn't notice. He had a feeling it was the former because her eyes looked the way she did when she gave him those odd hints of smiles, but her voice, which was rather flat to his aural sensibilities, was almost formal. “Of course, Detective Vakarian. I thought you might like to come to Presidium Towers, if you're free.”

He had, of course, been called by that title a million times before, but there was something about the way she said it that made him not want to say exactly what he said next. “Uh, call me Garrus. And yeah. I'm free. Uh, just let me stow my kit here.” He indicated his duffle as though the word wouldn't parse.

Her eyes were definitely smiling. He couldn't help notice them as they walked to the nearest set of lockers. Turians had vivid, but mostly mono-coloured eyes. They varied in shades and hues, of course, but all in all, the colour was brilliant, flat, and opaque. Her eyes—many humans, probably, but he didn't really consider that at the moment, were marbled like a planet being viewed from space. Her own seemed to shift from grey to green to somewhere in between depending on the tilt of her head, the way the artificial lights glanced off her face, and even if that bright stripe of hair came loose from behind her ear. She was tucking it back when they stopped at a panel of lockers. “So, why the Presidium Towers again?”

“I thought you wanted to see the Council Chambers.”

His arm hovered oddly high as he paused in bypassing the lock with his omni-tool. “Wait, what?”

“I've been asked to present Tali’Zorah’s evidence to the Council. Councilor Udina and Captain Anderson believe it will be enough to convince them that Saren is a traitor.”

“But why me? I mean, I'm a—"

“Cop?” she supplied, still with that secretive smile. “Haven't you ever testified for a case before?”

He crammed his large bag into the small space with the practiced ease of someone who had done such a feat many times. “Yeah, sure, but won't they be expecting you to bring your own along?”

He realised she was making an effort to deliberately misunderstand his implications when she replied, “Well, as of about three minutes ago, you officially became a member of my team. Unless you don't want to come, of course—"

“No! I mean, yeah, definitely.”

That earned him his first full-fledged grin from her. “Well then. Come on.”

They were just entering the Presidium gardens when she suddenly spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “It was a hell of a shot, you know.”

He might have had a swagger in his step as he allowed, “Nah. Just lucky.”

She shot him a quick, bright look, easily side-stepping a group of harried attachés. She led with her shoulder when she walked. He wondered which of the major cities on Earth she was from. “Going modest on me, Vakarian?”

He stumbled over his words again, at odds with the fact that he had rarely felt so at ease with a relative stranger. “Ah, hah, well, trying, Commander.”

“Shepard,” she supplied.

“Garrus,” he corrected.

The cherry trees, deceptively demure in their full bloom, came into view. The surprisingly resilient buds were pinker than her skin and clashed with her red-gold hair, but, somehow, he thought he saw a kinship between them. In an off-hand manner, he told her, “You owe me 250 creds, by the way.”

Her mouth curved in amusement. “Is that the going rate of a cop-for-hire on the Citadel?”

“No,” he said in a tone too grim to take seriously, “for the flowers.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she looked from him to the trees and back again. She didn’t immediately speak, as though trying to work out the joke before she was left dumbfounded. “What?”

They were near the farthest tree from the Council Chambers. He reached up but didn’t touch the branch. He gave her his best cop-face— a dour, stern, shrewd look. “These. It's illegal to deface them. There's a fine of 250 credits.”

Shepard’s mouth opened in dismay. “Oh crap, I didn’t know—"

Garrus made a dismissive gesture with his hand and laughed. “Relax, you're a Spectre. Or, well, almost. Besides, no one enforces it.”

She didn’t join in, however. Instead, she brought up her omni-tool and started tapping at the interface. She had an old Bluewire. He resisted the urge to tell her that the Savant was worth the investment. She interrupted his thoughts on offering to overclock it when she gravely said, “I won't have my first act as a Spectre be ticket dodging. Here. 250 credits.”

Now it was Garrus’ turn to be dumbfounded. He took a step backwards, hands up in placation, ignoring a nasty epithet from a salarian he nearly crushed. “I—I was joking.”

She looked up from the glowing orange screen. It made her hair very red. “There isn't a fine?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. She had an unnerving way of maintaining eye contact when she spoke that made her eyes seem piercing even when they were not. “No, there is, but I didn't mean I wrote you up—"

She shook her hair out of her face and lifted her chin. “Doesn't matter. If I broke a law, however symbolic, I want to atone for my actions. It's a matter of respect.”

Garrus’ mandibles opened in surprise. “For who?”

He saw a hint of that smile reappear in the corner of her mouth as she shut down her ‘tool. “For everybody. And myself. Come on. We’ve got to hurry up and wait for the Council.”

He chuckled despite his awe at her reverence and audacity. “Right behind you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for beta'ing and encouraging!


	4. Lately I'm Into Circuitry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus observes the art of patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta work and encouragements. Another big thank you to all you dear readers for kudos and comments!

**_Normandy SR-1_ ** **, 2183**

The couplings were a lost cause. The protective casing had been melted soft by Therum’s rivers of lava, and the constant motion of the Mako tangled the loose wiring into snarls and knots. With a muffled growl of frustration, he tossed it aside, mentally adding it to the long list of replacement parts they needed to pick up.

Williams, who was cataloguing ammo, jumped and glared at him. Sometimes, especially when Wrex rumbled a laugh at his impatience and her overreactions, there was a part of him that wanted to imitate the worst caricatures of turians in vids, teeth bared and talons canted, but mostly he just felt weariness toward her suspicion and alarm.

“What's the problem?”

Shepard had been in the engine room for quite some time, so her appearance was hardly a surprise. Still, Williams and Garrus straightened on reflex. Wrex, having no such training ingrained, grunted and resumed oiling his shotgun.

“Nothing, ma’am,” Ashley reported tightly, the same time as Garrus replied, irritation overpowering respect for the chain of command, “That whole unit needs to be replaced.”

Shepard made a humming noise that sounded very flat to his sensibilities, then knelt to pick up the board. “Let me have a look.”

It was far heavier than it looked, so she sat down next him, back against the armoured side of the Mako, crossing her legs and tucking her ankles under her knees before dragging the board into her lap with a faint grunt.

Humans had strangely mobile faces, too many fingers, vulnerable, soft flesh, odd, flat voices, and could contort themselves into the strangest positions.

Except—except he started to notice that her mouth pulled into a brilliant smile whenever she greeted him, her innumerable fingers were long and graceful, the way her disturbingly translucent skin displayed her sharp-boned features to an advantage, and that he enjoyed making her laugh, and that he not only couldn't look away from such displays of flexibility, but he found himself thinking of them long after they occurred.

Wrex barked a laugh and he realised he was staring, which is why he returned, far too loudly and forcefully, “It’s not worth it.”

Of course, Wrex laughed again. Garrus glared at him, but Shepard said nothing. She had the same expression on her face as she did when she was lining up a shot. With the same careful movements she put in to adjust her weapon, she ran her fingers over the tangles, pausing on one with the slightest of tugs. 

Williams was still frowning, having set aside her datapad to cross her arms. “Skipper,” she began, with a note of disapproval in her voice.

“Yes, Chief?” replied her Commander coolly, though she didn't look up from her task.

“Should you really be wasting your time on that?” There was a pause that hung in the air. “With all due respect, ma’am.”

Shepard’s only movement was a continued gentle, but persistent tugging on her chosen wire. Her response had a steely note of censure, though her words were light. “It's not a waste of time if it saves us needing a replacement part, Williams.” She too paused, but her voice was softer when she added, “Besides, I like doing it.”

“Really?” Garrus challenged, mandibles pulled askew in puzzlement. “Why?”

Shepard shrugged, the movement not at all impacting her fine work. “I find it relaxing. I don't know why, but I always have.” She slowly freed the first wire from the knot without a word of triumph and gestured for him to hold it off to the side.

“Who taught you how to do that?” Garrus demanded again, holding it as cautiously as a live grenade. It looked ridiculously tiny between his gloved talons.

“Her father,” Wrex cut in, oblivious to social graces or emotional scars. “That's the kind of thing a father teaches their young. Patience.”

The room quieted until the hum of the engines and the requisitions officer’s too-loud omni-tool interface could be made out. Both Ashley and Garrus glared at Wrex this time, but he was entirely unmoved. “It's something your father should have taught you, kid.”

Garrus began a sharp retort, but Shepard, whose hands had momentarily stilled, spoke over them both with the same restrained caution in her voice that her fingers employed at their task. “Wrex.”

That a single word, not shouted or punctuated with violence, could soothe the krogan was as baffling to Garrus as the slow but steady work Shepard made of the knotted wires. Wrex bared his teeth, but in a grin. “I should have guessed you like ‘em sweet.”

Her mouth curled into a smirk. “Go bother someone else for a while.”

Wrex grunted, but he did pick up his gun, oil, and rag to lumber further down the hold. “I've had enough talking anyway.”

Ashley was similarly perplexed, though for very different reasons.   “I'm going to see if there's anything edible left in the galley. Ma’am.” She couldn't seem to bear to look at Garrus, though she nodded in his general direction.

“Enjoy, Chief.”

Sitting comparatively alone next to Shepard, Garrus had the incongruous thought of his parents excusing themselves and Solana from the room when he brought Rena home for the first time. He felt far more uncomfortable then, despite Wrex’s insinuation, which should have been more disturbing than it was. So, he added a subnote of naïveté to his naturally confused tone, “What did he mean by that?”

She looked up for the first time since she started working on the board. A shorter lock of her hair fell loose, and his traitorous fingers twitched to touch it, but she tucked it back far too quickly. Her mouth pulled into that brilliant smile.  “Nothing important.”

 


	5. Little Blue World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus learns something new about Commander Shepard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her help with this excruciatingly difficult installment. Please check out her latest story, [Liberations of Snipers and Spectres](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12900228) or read the entire series, [Turian Machinations of Spectres and Primarchs.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/889542)

**Noveria, 2183**

Not that Garrus expected any better from the frozen hunk of rock they were on, but Port Hanshan had a particularly bad gift shop. It made him think the chances he’d find something suitable for Sol were high.

Unfortunately, as he stood in the small, boxy space in front of shelves of junk, he found himself unable to decide between a furry plush thing that might have been a varren wearing a knitted scarf, or a mug that changed colour depending on the temperature of liquid inside.

He noticed Shepard was approaching his side and put both items down quickly. She had that look of vague amusement on her face that made Garrus stammer.  “Oh, uh, I was just looking for something for my sister.”

She looked surprised at this admission. “I didn't know you had a sister. Older or younger?”

“Younger by about three and a half years.”

She nodded, examining the scarf-wearing varren. “Nice. Is she still in mandatory service?”

He caught himself watching her hands and busied himself with further perusal of the mug display. Unfortunately, his next selection featured the slogan ‘Stone Cold’ with an impossibly tiny-waisted turian woman posing in a provocative manner. He hastily shoved it back on the shelf and hedged, “Uh, sort of. She’s in a specialty field.”

She slanted a look up at him that seemed like a veiled smile. “Oh, so, she got the brains and you got the looks?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That sounds like something Sol—uh, her name’s Solana—would say.”

This time, she did smile, though it was a little wistful. “That's a very pretty name. It sounds warm.”

Abruptly, he felt like an ass. He was reminded of the last time he complained about his family—his father in particular— rehashing the gory details of his failed Spectre candidacy, when she had done something remarkable. She had smiled, just as she had done now, and said, “It sounds like he loves you very much.” After dismissing her with a laugh and a wisecrack about how he was his father’s favourite person in the galaxy, he realised that, at least, he had a father who interfered, and a mother who fretted about his social life, and a sister who badgered him with messages, no matter how long it took him to reply. Shepard had no one. No one to worry about her or be proud of her, to catch her when she fell or applaud when she stood.

He didn’t know what to say. Tali had her father and an aunt and the Fleet. Alenko has his parents, Williams did too, and sisters. Liara’s mother might be their current quarry, but at least she had a century of good memories. Wrex, too, had nearly a millennia of them as well.  What did Shepard have?

Shepard, however, didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed by the conversation. He shuddered inwardly at the thought that she had gotten used to being alone in the galaxy.

As it was, she leaned back on her heels and surveyed the admittedly poor selection the same way she surveyed a room full of uncooperative parties. Clearly, she decided that gift-hunting was a mission and faced it with the grim determination she always embodied.  “So why here?”

Garrus realised he was staring, lost in thought, and quickly busied himself with renewed interest in the stuffed varren. “What?”

He felt her eyes on him as she asked, “Why get her something here? It's not much of a gift shop and you did say something about turians hating the cold about five or six times.”

His mandibles flexed in a quick grin. “Hah, it was only twice. Anyway, it's our thing. She tells me to get her something nice, I sent her something tacky. I tell her I only like classy gifts and she sends me something crappy.”

Shepard shook her head in amusement but her smile was doleful once more. Then, her voice took on a firm, resolute tone. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you a minute.”

He straightened, immediately abandoning any pursuit of varrens, stuffed or otherwise. “Oh. Of course, C— Shepard.”

She moved her hand in a dismissive gesture that made him realise he was standing at attention. “I brought Liara along in hopes she could get her mother to see reason, but I'm not very confident of her combat abilities to begin with and her head’s not going to be in the game.”

Garrus’ mandibles drew against his face in a frown. “If someone as powerful as a Matriarch is being controlled by a rogue Spectre, what makes you think her daughter is going to be able to do anything?”

Shepard had picked up a glass object with a model of Peak 15 inside and gave it a shake. Silver and white flakes swirled around inside. “You ever do a hostage negotiation?”

He shook his head. “Not personally. I've been on scene as overwatch.”

For once, she wasn’t making eye contact as she spoke, but watching the contents of the object in her hand. “So you know the first tactic is to relate to the suspect, make him feel safe, try to talk him down.”

He did know this, but he never saw the point. A bullet to the head solved the situation far more quickly and left far less variables. “Yeah, but—"

She seemed to sense his doubts. “We need Benezia alive, cooperative, and willing to talk. Saren is our top priority.”

He sighed. “You've got a point, I guess.”

She looked up at him then, and though her words were determined, her voice was not ungentle. “Listen, you don't need to agree with my decisions—"

His mandibles slackened before he interrupted her. “Shepard, I will _always_ have your six.” He felt sad, not irritated, that she would doubt that.

She set the glass object down carefully and, with as much mindfulness, briefly touched his arm. “I know that.” It was a statement of conviction, but devoid of hubris. “Today, though, I need you at my three.”

He flashed her a self-assured grin that contradicted the heady giddiness he felt at the trust laid upon him, not to mention the fleeting pressure of her hand “I can do that too.”

She returned the smile, though, picking up the snowy sphere and thrusting it in his hand. “Here.”

He took it uncertainly, not wanting to break it but also fearful of dropping it. “What’s this?”

“A snow globe. For your sister,” she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He shook it gingerly, peering suspiciously at the delicate object. “I’m not sure. It’s really not crappy enough.”

She laughed and picked up another one, not taking the same care to make the contents inside twirl. “You’re in the big leagues now. You have to send her something nice. Besides, this one reminds me of the kind I had growing up.”

Garrus tried desperately not to look alert and curious at this rare admission of Shepard’s past. “Yeah? Where did you grow up?”

“The city,” she said in such a blatantly arrogant and negligent manner— as a turian might refer to Cipritine— that he couldn’t clamp his mandibles down out of a grin. “Care to be more specific?”

She rounded her eyes, a varied-species appeal of innocence, but the corner of her mouth gave her away. “There's only one city.”

Garrus nodded sagely as he scanned the item into the kiosk. “Ah. So, you're from Cipritine.”

Shepard waited until the snow globe was safely wrapped up and deposited in the nearest United Galactic Shipping hub before she corrected him, very casually, as though she weren’t scattering tempting breadcrumbs in front of him. “New York.”

Three hours later, they were still waiting for clearance outside the port, inside the confines of the Mako.

“It’s as cold as fuck here,” Shepard announced with annoyance no one serving aboard the _Normandy SR-1_ had previously been privy to hear. “What is taking so long?”  Her famed patience had to have a breaking point, after all, and it was sitting in a parked vehicle that did it, not excruciatingly long elevator rides.

From his miserable slouch, Garrus wondered aloud, “I thought your people came from a cold place.”

She turned to him, eyes wide in surprise. “My people?”

He straightened a little in the jump seat. “Yeah, humans.”

She sank back against her own seat and, inexplicably, laughed in relief and understanding. “Oh.”

He was too curious to resume his relaxed posture. “What did you think I meant?”

From the backseat, a place dreaded more than any other by those serving ground side with the Commander, Liara piped in. “Shepard belongs to an ethnic minority among humans.”

Lately, whenever Liara revealed just how much she knew about Shepard, the latter would appeal to Garrus with a desperate, pleading look. Sometimes, he'd save her with a joke or a glib remark, but he was cold and frustrated, too. Humans were so proud of being different from each other. They bragged about their various origins on Earth as though it meant something to any other race. Turians as a whole found it perplexing, so to say the least. For Garrus, it fell under a subject he was currently avoiding: ‘uncomfortable realisations about himself as compared to a model turian citizen.’

Instead, he turned to Shepard and demanded, “Why are humans so insistent on being unique? If you can't unite among yourselves, how do you expect to survive in a galactic community? How do you expect to ever hold a Council seat?”

Shepard leaned her forehead against the steering wheel of the Mako like she loved it. Clearly, _that_ gesture was not universal. She said something under breath about a deity and strength, but it didn't quite translate. Then she turned her head to him, eyes narrowed. “I don't feel comfortable having this conversation outside of an elevator.”

He barked a laugh and she gave him a lopsided grin in return. Liara, crossing her arms in the backseat, chimed in with the imperious air of a teacher’s pet forced to partner with two class clowns. “I happen to find the proud diversity among humans to be fascinating.” Garrus turned his head enough to give her a flat look and her face flushed violet. “From an archaeological standpoint, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed derisively. Shepard tried to give him a stern look but her mouth twitched up in the corner. He schooled his face into a humbler expression and she sucked in a huge breath to heave a sigh.

“Humanity has a history of oppressing and murdering those they view as different from themselves, and my people— my ethnic people— the Jews, were among those that other humans tried to eradicate with, unfortunately, a great deal of success. They didn’t view themselves as unequal to any other member of the human race. Like the krogan don’t see themselves as anything less than the other Council races, and yet both were treated in a similar fashion.”

Garrus was quick to interrupt that line of thought. “Well, that’s not like the genophage, though. The krogan were out of control—”

Shepard didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But is it necessary to keep punishing them for crimes that happened a millennia ago? Any more than it’s necessary to punish someone for having a different set of beliefs or different coloured skin-tone or even not wearing colony marks?”

He replied rapidly, though with much less conviction, “Well, that’s different…”

She turned to him and then round-eyed Liara in the backseat. “Is it, though? Is every asari with violet-tinged skin really that much more unattractive than one with light-blue skin? Is every turian who goes bareface really untrustworthy and dishonourable?”

Liara, of the coveted shade of azure, blushed violet. Garrus fell silent. So her utter abhorrence of the genophage wasn't just formed by her irreproachable ethics. It was personal. All at once, he felt a twinge of shame for the things he said to Wrex and Tali about their people deserving their punishments.

 “So, yeah, a lot of humans are proud of their differences from each other, but I think it's vital they—we—all realise that we’re far more alike than different. That goes for all the races in this galaxy, by the way.”

He regarded her from the narrow distance of the jump seats. How she spoke with her hands when she was passionate about the topic, and the way she always maintained eye contact, no matter how personal or distasteful she found the subject. In theory, he thought, she would make a good politician. But Shepard was as incorruptible as hydrogen. She changed people’s beliefs, views, and ideals, but steadfastly remained true to herself.

Shepard turned back to the white expanse of Peak 15, “When the Reapers come, we’re going to have to put aside our differences. We’re going to have to speak up for those who we might not agree with or even like. I’m ready to do that. Are you?”

“Of course!” Liara’s reply was quick and indignant but Garrus noted Shepard didn't say ‘if’. She said ‘when’. She was still staring at the Peak in the distance, and though the lines of her shoulders were tense and her eyes alert, there was a shadow of weariness darkening her face. If beliefs were what humans thought made them so different from each other, then it was time to unite them under a single belief—in someone like Shepard and the commonality of fraternity she saw in every individual. So, quietly, Garrus said, “I will, Shepard. On my honour.”

Shepard looked away from the endless snow drifts with a smile so soft it was almost delicate. “I know.”


	6. This One Time On the SR-1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Wrex debate diplomacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her constant encouragement and beta skills and a hearty thanks to every dear reader. 
> 
> Warning: Mention of regurgitation.

**_Normandy SR-1_ ** **, 2183**

By the time they made it back to the _Normandy_ , everyone had already heard about the thresher maw.

The thing had taken out the main guns with a well-aimed belch. Shepard, who had been relatively calm up until this point, circumstances all considered, seemed to throw out her well-honed caution with the gears.

She gunned the metal beast into the fleshy one and damned if ore didn’t win out.

The impact was unpleasant, to say the least. Tali, whether from nerves or a concussion or both, puked in her helmet. It was only then that Shepard turned grey and shaky, but she tightened her hands on the wheel as though bracing herself to stay in the jump seat and flashed a surreal grin at Garrus. It reminded him of a human skull he had once had the dubious pleasure of coming across on a prior case. His mandibles flicked out warily and he quickly turned away on the pretence of assisting Tali.

That was more than two standard hours ago. Now, he leaned cautiously against the slimy, bruised carriage of the Mako and watched as Shepard and Wrex stood nose to nose.

It began, as most of the accidental deaths that came across his desk did: an eager party, a bad idea; a thoughtless impulse.

After they went through decom and Shepard insisted Tali get fluids and a scan from Dr. Chakwas, the commander came down to check on the damage she so recently inflicted on the rover.

“So what’s the bottom line?” She had been leaning against the vehicle much as Garrus was now, possibly on the same spot as it was unmained, but there was almost a palpable, tense energy around her. She kept flicking her hands opened and closed in fists so tight that knuckles pushed out threateningly against her thin skin and her palms flared out so far that the fine bones of her fingers looked like bare branches of a wintry tree.

He swallowed and looked away, as though espying something intimate. “It’s not really that bad, for once. The shields took most of it. The guns are back online. I’d say the rest is cosmetic.”

She grinned so widely that the flash of her teeth caught his visor. “So we can just slap some face paint on it? You think I could make up colony markings for the city?”

He laughed despite himself. There was an edge to her teasing that struck him as off. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but—no, his gut wasn’t wrong about these things. It was as though she was forcing giddiness and, if she stopped, she might come undone. “Cipritine already has a set,”’ he retorted with the air of martyred patience.

It was an old joke by now between them. Wrex had made his way to Shepard by then, giving her shoulder a pat that bent her sideways. “So you claimed another thresher maw, eh Shepard? How many does that make it now? I knew a guy once—long time ago, before my krantt—name of Vor, clan Thumock. Took down twenty, all told.”

Garrus glared at Wrex, more so than usual. Why did he have to bring up Akuze? Sure, Shepard was acting, well, weird, but to step right up and mention it.  His subharmonics thrummed in frustration. Wrex had no… what was the word? Finesse.

Shepard made a grab for the Mako to steady herself, then reflexively scrubbed her hands against her uniform’s pants. Even her slightest movements had a strange sort of violence in them that had never been there before. She shifted her weight heavily on the leg closest to the elevator. “So what happened to him?”

Whether Shepard picked up on Garrus’ increasing irritation with Wrex was inconsequential, because the krogan already had. He grinned at the turian, all jagged, yellow teeth. “Kalros.”

Garrus made a sound of disgusted disbelief. “Shut up, Wrex. Kalros isn’t real. It’s a bedtime story.”

Wrex reared his head back and Shepard quickly stepped between them, hands up as though to push them away from each other. “What’s Kalros?”

Wrex laughed in that vexing, spitting way that made Garrus’ plates itch. “Try and make me, kid. Don’t you want to impress the _Commander._ ” The last was said in that leering, jeering manner he had, as though he knew exactly what Garrus had been thinking while he watched Shepard’s slender hands moments ago.

She was not particularly tall for a human and it was easy for him to sidestep her in favour of shoving Wrex against the lockers behind him.

It might have ended up with a few more insults, a pissing contest and some dual-chirality beers, but Wrex’s bet against the length of Garrus’ fuse—and substantial reach—caught him off guard. He stumbled into the bench behind him, upsetting Ashley’s gun oil with a growl.

“I’ll tear you apart!”

Humans might be squishy, but they were also nimble, fast, and slippery. Shepard dove between them, arms spread wide, possibly to shield the Mako from being repainted with Garrus’ blood.

“Wrex! Calm down! Garrus, what the hell—”

Wrex, it must be said, did hesitate before he tried to extract Shepard from his war path with an impetuous hand. “I’m sick of your diplomatic crap and his smart mouth.”

To everyone’s surprise, Shepard shoved her shoulder—her bad one, of course—into Wrex’s heavily armoured chest.

Garrus, despite the impending threat to his life, winced in sympathy.

But she held her ground, jerking her chin up in a perfect imitation of that old Alliance picture of her that frequented the vid news stations. “How about some krogan diplomacy, then?”

Crap. Garrus stuck his neck out, literally, and grabbed her good shoulder. “Come on, Shepard. Don’t do this.”

Wrex gave him that hateful leering and jeering look once more, but then pointedly looked away to the shoulder and chin jabbing his personal space. “You wanna head butt me, human?”

She grinned like a skull again and Garrus knew then that despite her morally courteous tendencies, she was spoiling for a fight; anything not to think about the maw on Trebin, or its siblings on Akuze. She shrugged his arm off and stepped closer to Wrex like a preening _pavo._ “I’m fine, Garrus. And it’s Commander or Shepard to you,” the last emphasised with her grinning face up in Wrex’s mocking one.

This was a bad idea. A very bad idea that he didn’t know how to stop. As Wrex took a step forward, Garrus surreptitiously tapped a message into his omni-tool to Tali.

Help, or rather a small audience arrived a few moments later.  Tali, with Williams, and Kevin-the-requisitions-guy, who was sweet on Ash and laughed and smiled more at her than the impeding fight, crowded by Garrus. He couldn’t tell if they were more amused or bewildered at their sudden ringside seats or the markedly uncharacteristic behaviour of Shepard. Tali shot him a bright, worried glance through her helmet, but Garrus just gave her a helpless shrug, mandibles pulled tight against his face. “Look, Wrex, I’m sorry, okay? This is completely unnecessary. Come on, Shepard.”

“Jeez, Shepard. L. T. wasn’t serious when he said shooting things made everyone feel better.” Kevin beamed at her as though she imparted the wisdom of an ancient Danori priest and Williams had the gall to smile tentatively in return. Human mating rituals were so strange.

Wrex grabbed her chin, but gently, lifting her face up with a paternal air. “You’re a good kid. Smart. Fair. Open-minded. Usually level-headed.” He genuinely grinned then and Garrus didn’t care who heard his sigh of relief. “It’s too valuable a head to me. I’m not going to bash it in.” He spared a mocking look over her shoulder to Garrus, then released her and jogged her arm.  “Consider me finessed, Shepard.”

Shepard wasn’t smiling anymore. That grey, shaky look had seized her for good. She swallowed visibly and nodded, giving Wrex’s arm a pat back. “Right.” She didn’t look at him anyway, certainly not Garrus as she murmured, “I should go,” and beat a hasty retreat through the parted crowd. He wanted to stop her, to say something, but he felt Wrex’s eyes on him. He let her go without a word.

“ _Keelah_ , _”_ Tali hissed in awe. “What happened?”

Garrus opened his mouth, but it was Wrex who interjected. “Krogan-human diplomacy.”

Williams looked between them, wide-eyed. “Diplomacy, huh?”

Garrus, at a loss for words, unable and unwilling to begin to describe his hunch, just shook his head. Let them think he was just some poor, confused turian. His opinion wasn’t meant to be shared.

“Hey, did I tell you that ammo clip finally came in?” Kevin said this to Williams, but it was Tali who asked, “For my Katana? Finally!”

It wasn’t until their voices blended in with the thrum of the engines that Wrex appraised Garrus from across the bench between them.

“You’re hot-headed and short-sighted. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but like I said: She’s a good kid.”

Garrus pointedly turned toward the mess instead to clean off the Mako. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

Wrex picked up the bottle of gun oil and sniffed it before setting it down. “Just something you oughta think about.”

As though Garrus ever needed a reason to think about Shepard. Despite himself, though, as he started to scrape the slime away, one reply echoed in his mind. Definitely.


	7. Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard go to a diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) and to all readers out there.

**The Citadel, 2183**

To an outside observer, it looked like Shepard had locked the man in an embrace, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. But the crook of her elbow was bent high and close to her and the hand that wasn't curled in his hair was seemingly trapped between them.

He knew she kept a combat knife in her boot.

Tali was bargaining at the register, though Shepard had given them a sizeable sum for dextro supplies. Tali seemed affronted when he suggested they pay the asking price, but now he was thankful for the distraction. “If you're okay here, I've got something I need to take care of.”

“Fifty? Do I look like I'm on my pilgrimage?” She waved Garrus off, planting her hands in her hips. “Thirty-five.”

He walked purposively, but with a hundred-yard stare, noting landmarks and shadows; people he passed remained in view from the reflective windows of storefronts. He had been taught to walk like this, to follow a suspect without being conspicuous, to confirm that he was being tailed and, if so, how to keep them in view without giving away the knowledge.

She walked like that, too.

His visor told him what he already knew. The human male’s heart was racing and there was a cool piece of metal between them. He stopped a few feet away, as though to admire the dismantled asari mannequins in an out-of-business storefront.

Shepard’s voice was low and calm and she had a smile painted on her face, but her eyes were colder than their steely colour. The man’s mouth twisted in a sneer as she finished her honeyed threat, and she fisted his hair for good measure before slowly letting him go.

If she hadn't known he was there, she didn't look surprised. And though her face wasn't noticeably paler, there was a greyish cast that he had only seen once, after they encountered a thresher maw.

“You're going to regret this, bitch! I'll tell them everything, you know! How many cocks did you suck to get where you are now, huh? Think they'll still call you a hero when I tell ‘em how you spread for a few creds? You always were a selfish whore, Shepard!”

Humans didn't make that satisfying crunch turians did when you slammed their head into a hard surface, but the howl they gave when you drove an armoured knee into the males’ soft parts sort of made up for it. The man made a wet, squelching sound around Garrus glove, but he kept him pressed up against the empty storefront. “See, I don't think you're going to talk at all. I think you're going to turn around and leave. I think,” he twisted the man’s struggling arm tighter behind his back, “you're going to walk away and when someone asks you what happened to your ugly face, you're going to tell them you got drunk and loud in a bar. Sound about right?”

The man nodded and Garrus started to let him go.

“You fucking cuttlebones now, too?”

They also let out high pitched squeals when their shoulders popped out of joint. “You're not too bright, are you?”

“Fuck, call him off, Shepard!”

Her knife had disappeared from view and her arms were crossed in the same appraising way she stood when listening to a merc lie. “I can't do that, Finch. He's C-Sec.”

“You're a fucking Spectre, you can do anything you want!”

“Well, if that were true, you'd be dead.”

He swore and Garrus added, “Why don't you show me how well you can keep your mouth shut?”

“I'm gonna report you!”

“Yeah, I don't think that’s going to happen.” He let him loose with a hard shove. “Go.” When the human seemed to hesitate, he gave him another. “Go!”

He scampered off like a pyjack.

Garrus looked at the red smears on his glove in disgust. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” She wasn't. “I'm sorry you had to see that, do that.”

“Hey, we should get cleaned up. Come on. I know a place.”

He had taken so many humans there in the few years he worked as a detective. Wives who didn't know they were widows yet, stirring their steaming beverages well after they cooled, never taking a sip. Duct rats who would scarf down the mound of pulverised meat insignificantly blanketed by flimsy dough, fizzy drinks, and triangular pieces of crust and jellied fruit as though it would be snatched away if they spoke first. Johns who would sink back easily into one of the booths, ordering the most expensive thing on the menu before they'd give up their dealer. Sometimes, they’d sniffle, and of all the strange, peculiar, and downright disgusting things humans were capable of, sniffling was the one action he couldn’t abide.

He pegged Shepard for the hot cup but not to drink type and there was joyless satisfaction in discovering he was right. He had thought that after joining the _Normandy_ , he'd never have to do this again. He was good at it—gifted, his father said, but how he hated it. Hated hearing confessions of the guilty that were incongruously filled with pride. Hated knowing that the meal he bought a dulled-eyed kid would make absolutely no difference in his life. Hated the way a ruined face would sniffle a promise to stay away, only to look up at him in a morgue a month later. But he also knew from those experiences that sometimes the person across from him needed to repent in order to move on, that some really would walk away, and sometimes it just took a few acts of kindness to change someone’s life. He could stand to listen to her heart laid bare.

Her hands were wrapped too tightly around the steaming mug and, for once, she didn't look him in the eye.  

He understood something about her within a week on the _Normandy SR-1_. Something she never told him and he never voiced. She preferred small spaces and had a habit of holding herself in, whether by crossing her arms during even the friendliness of conversations, or the way she put her weight on one leg, slightly bent, as though always ready to bolt. It was something he had seen when he was still a beat cop, during domestic abuse calls, ticketing unlicensed prostitutes, always when questioning duct rats. She had been hurt, and badly, for quite some time.

Neither one said anything for the longest time. He sensed she was framing sentences and dismissing them before they could be formed. When she finally spoke, her words came haltingly, and there was shroud of shame over them. “My dad died—was killed—when I was young. I didn't know my mother. We didn't have—there was no one to take me in. There's a system—I'm sure there's one everywhere—it's an awful system—they all probably are—overcrowded, underfunded… I tried—my dad always told me to play the game and I tried, I did, but they, they had so much power and when you're a little kid—”

Garrus forced himself not to wince, but she didn’t notice as she went on, “So I ran away. I thought I'd be safer like that, with other kids, but they had turned into something I hadn't, but—I had to play the game. I had to stay alive. So, I did. I figured, I guess, I could make up for it when I was older.” She made an ugly sound that was supposed to be a laugh. “I did what I had to do. That's the excuse, right? I didn't hurt anyone. That's what I'm supposed to tell myself, right?”

He moved to put his hand over hers, but hesitated at the last moment. She didn't flinch away and the tips of his talons remained a hairsbreadth away from her fingers.

“I didn't do everything he said. Mostly, I helped run cons. Got dressed up, sat at bars, made a lot of promises and got some creds for finding good marks. Lifted chits if they were stupid, stole passwords if they were drunk enough to talk. Sometimes, if they wanted—sometimes I didn't have a say in the matter.

But the cops, most of them, weren't too bad. They'd forget to call OCFS after they ran my DNA or look the other way if they found me with a chit that didn't belong to me if I helped them out. Info, usually. What I overheard, who was meeting where, was someone looking to sell off a big score. It's not like they were looking to collar some skinny kid for stealing enough to eat.

But some of the others in the gang found out I was talking and they were looking to move up in the food chain. After they—after that, I walked into a recruitment centre and asked if I could join up. It was about a month before I turned eighteen, so they held off officially filing the paperwork until my birthday. I can't say I wanted to, to do any of this, but the Alliance saved my life. I owe them a debt, you know?”

It was all too easy for him to fill in the unspoken words, to put together the missing pieces. He wanted to tell her she didn't owe him or the Alliance anything at all. He wished he had snapped that bastard’s neck. But he also knew what she needed to hear, so he extended his talons that fractional inch and took her fingers in his own. “Yeah. I know.”

Her eyes glittered, and though nothing threatened to slip down her cheek, she sniffled. But instead of grimacing, or letting go of her hand, he squeezed it tighter.


	8. Darby and Joan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Garrus' parents discuss a vid call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her incredible beta work and all you readers out there. Happy and healthy new year!

**Palaven, 2183**

Castis Vakarian did not like being retired.

For the past twenty years, he spent every other weekend and one fortnight every second month in a suburb of Cipritine. The rest of his time was spent as Chief Inspector of the 42nd Precinct, Tayseri Ward.

Often, when working on a trying case or dealing with the various headaches the job entailed, he would fantasise about his retirement. The hot, breezy days in his backyard, family dinners, the various card games one seems to take up when retired.

That had not happened.

Lavinia was busy with the life she had created on Palaven and often shooed Castis from the house, encouraging him to become reacquainted with his home. Solona no longer lived at home and the secretive nature of her work often kept her away from visiting. And Garrus… well, Garrus had gone and run off with a Spectre in order to chase another.

Castis walked his new beat, starting at the purple  _cinaede_ that marked his property, past the comfortable homes of his neighbours, down to the cul-du-sac, and back again.

He was very, very bored.

His son did not inherit his impatience, impetuousness, or rashness from his mother. Castis saw all his qualities in his son and wished to stop the younger Vakarian from making the same foolish mistakes he made in his youth. Unfortunately, in doing so, Castis had simply made the biggest mistake of his life. He broke his son’s trust and he did not know how to repair the breach.

On his way home, Castis picked up a switch, fallen from a nearby tree, and rapped it thoughtfully against his leg spur. Words had been exchanged when Garrus resigned from C-Sec. Words he regretted immediately. Perhaps an email would be better than trying to arrange a vid call. Calmer heads could prevail in an email.

He thought about what he would write as he threw the switch away and entered the security code to bypass the lock on his front door.

Lavinia’s voice came muffled from the living room. “Your son called today.”

Castis felt a rush of disappointment as to have missed it. He crossed over to the entryway and leaned against it. “Oh, he’s my son today. What did he do now?”

His wife was bent half-inside a cabinet under the vid screen. She spoke in a halting manner, as though she could not contain her frustration. “He—” she paused to extract herself from various auxiliary cables and an assortment of remote controls, “Is in love,” She straightened, frowning at the cabinet. “With that woman.”

Castis smothered all semblance of amusement under a solemn attitude. “Of course he is. She’s his superior officer. He’s a turian. It’s in the blood.”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was lacking for an average turian, and laid a graceful hand on her keelbone “ _I_ did not encourage you.”

His mandibles twitched in smug amusement. “My dear, you seem to have an altered memory of events.” He straightened and surveyed the cabinet. “Now, what are we looking for?”

Lavinia tossed her head. “I did not encourage you. Could I help it if you persisted in chasing me until you wore down my defences?” She sighed as he neared her and threw her hands in the air.  “Oh, spirits of the lost _Atia_ , where are my damned specs?”

With years of hard-won patience, he gently tapped the top of her finely shaped head. “My dear.”

There was a long space of silence as Lavinia took the instrument off her head, folded it neatly in her hand, then tucked it into the pocket on her jacket. Castis busied himself with putting the various flotsam back into the cabinet, giving her time to recover from her embarrassment. 

Finally, she spoke. “Well, it could be worse, I suppose. She could be an _asari.”_

He chuckled at the scathing condemnation his wife stressed on the word. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. So, he has a crush on her. As I said, it’s only natural. He was mad about that instructor at the academy, remember? If I had to hear about those ‘violet eyes’ one more time—”

Lavinia began to straighten the cushions on the couch, perhaps hitting them harder than strictly necessary so that they might regain their shape. “Yes, and what did your son do to poor Sergeant Violet Eyes? He ‘recalibrated,’” here, she paused, holding up two pillows to bracket the word, “her sniper rifle for optimal performance and _we_ had to pay for the replacement!”

Castis folded his arms and waited for her to finish her assault on the seating arrangements. “Only because she was an ungrateful _vacca_. He squeezed out three extra rounds doing that. She should have paid him a service fee. Or a thank you would have done nicely, at least.”

His wife flung down the last pillow and herself on the couch in despair. “Oh, Castis, really! Would I be this upset if it were just a crush? Do you know what your son did?”

He eased into his favourite chair, though he retained the ramrod straight posture instilled in him in boot camp a long while ago. “Tell me. Do I need to get in contact with the Primarch? Is an official state apology necessary?”

“Your son offered to upgrade her omni-tool—”

Castis made as though to rise. “Right. That’s it. I’ll get Fedorian on the vid comm now. You know, my hearing has never been the same since he fiddled with Solana’s.”

Lavinia threw up her hands in vexation. “ _Castis!_ Would you listen to me and be serious for one moment?  He offered, she accepted, and not only thanked him— no, no. She’s let him have free range over their— oh, what’s it called—  their rover with the silly name.”

He said with all of the solemnity in the galaxy, “Oh. This _is_ serious.”

She seemed appeased by his change in tone. “You know what he gets like! And she’s encouraging him! He told me he’s working with this little quarian girl they’ve picked up to upgrade the combat sensors. He’s modifying the suspension. She’s even let him add a personally modified recoil dampener to her assault rifle. Apparently, she ‘really feels the kickback’s improved, Mom’!” It was a fair imitation of her son.

He rubbed his mandible in a grave gesture. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

She tilted her head in smug triumph. “You see?”

He nodded, still grave. “I see. I see. Clearly, she’s in love with our son. If she let him do all that and hasn’t killed him…”

Lavinia once more flung her arms, despairing of Castis’ levity. “Do be serious! What are we going to do? She’s a… a… human!”

Castis chuckled in an amused, patronising way. “Now, my dear, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, they’re really not that bad.”

She finally sank back into her freshly plumped cushions with an enormous sigh. “Oh, it’s not _that_ , though I would like some grandchildren. It’s only that life is so difficult as it is. Doesn’t he realise how hard he’s going to make things for himself?”

He relented somewhat, leaning forward to pat his wife’s leg. “If Garrus did anything the easy way, well, I don’t think my weak heart could take the shock. Besides, we have a daughter to birth a legion of turian grandchildren. This Shepard seems to enjoy herding up strays. They can adopt. I, for one, am not worried. As you said, it could be worse.”

Lavinia clasped his hand. “Yes, I suppose we should be thankful she isn’t _monochromatic_.”

Castis gave it a squeeze and returned cheerfully, “Or a hanar.”


	9. Baby, You Can Drive My Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus fixes the Mako.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta work and every reader out there. 
> 
> Some sexual content ahead.

**_Normandy SR-1_ ** **and Casbin, 2183**

 

“Show me,” he says.

“You might not like it,” is her reply.

She's straddling him, inexplicably still in the black undergarments she wears beneath her undersuit. He has the fleeting thought that humans either wear too much clothing or not enough, but it flits away because she's expertly stroking his waist with her deft little fingers and the extra digits lend the sensation that she's touching him everywhere, all at once. The distraction is threatening to force him into action, and she smirks slightly when she feels his plates shift further.

So, he traces the wide, pink scars that caress her rib cage and hugs her waist until they disappear into her tiny shorts. He follows them anyway, underneath the stretchy material to her hips. She makes a noise, like she just found a stash of medigel in an otherwise burnt out bunker.

“I ended up liking this.” His talons carefully brush something hot and wet that makes her eyes close and her fingers dig into his waist.

When she opens them, his mandibles are flared unevenly in a smirk. She leans over him, moving her hands up just below his cowl for balance. “Fine,” she sighs exasperatedly, but she rocks down on him, adding delicious pressure to the nearly parted plates and the straining erection they are struggling to encase.

He traps her hips against his, holding her in place. The urge to tear off the last barrier between them and thrust into her is maddening, but he wants this more. He wants her pleasure above his own.  He wants her to be happy and he wants to be the one to make her so.  When she bends her head over his, he sees her eyes are greyer than green in that moment before she presses her mouth against his own.

Her lips are impossibly soft and plush against his stiffer plates, but the significance of the act makes the kiss burn like a brand. She's gentle at first, and slow with trepidation, but the deep rumble of his subvocals and his tightening grip seem to encourage her to deepen the kiss. Her muscular little tongue flicks out, tracing his mouth plates. He groans with the knowledge of what that deceptively small tongue can do. Humans might have the misguided belief that they invented oral sex, but nevertheless, they seemed to excel in it. 

He feels her mouth move over his, too forcefully for the triumphant smirk he was expecting, and he's a little confused until she opens his mouth with her own. Her tongue slides against his rougher one and, though it's strange and new, he eagerly tries to match her movements.  Her hands slide up, over his cowl, allowing herself to flatten against him. When her fingers stroke his mandibles, he thrusts his tongue into her mouth. Then, they find their way under his fringe, and he bucks his hips against hers, talons biting through that damned piece of clothing.

He wants to taste her skin and hair and sex. He wants to drink her in, breathe her in, until she's all he senses. He wants to make stars explode before her eyes again and again. He's not quite sure how to make it all happen, but getting her naked seems the first step.

She breaks away from the kiss and somehow, though their bodies are pressed against each other, he feels like she's slipping out of his grasp. She takes a greedy gulp of air, but when she sighs his name, it comes out not like a desire, but a question.

“Garrus?”

She sounds like—

“Garrus?”

Alenko was standing over his cot in the crew quarters. The biotic had been perfectly amenable to sharing space with Garrus, which made the latter rather grateful. They were both friendly with each other, but had too little in common to be better friends. Still, if anyone had to wake him up from—from whatever _that_ was, he was glad it was a human, and more so that it wasn't Wrex.

Still, Garrus rushed to sit up, smacking his head against the frame of the nearest bunk. Kaidan winced in sympathy, allowing Garrus a succinct curse before the former said, somewhat apologetically, “It’s first shift.”

“Crap,” Garrus muttered, scrabbling for his visor. “My omni-tool didn't go off.” 

“It's okay. Happens to the best of us.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. Garrus was not at all willing to stand up until he's alone and Kaidan seemed to be waiting for him to do just that. After a beat, he replied, “Sure. Don't mention it.”

Garrus was about to ask him to do the same, but thought better of it. They both nodded to each other and Kaidan thankfully left him alone.

“Crap,” he repeated to the empty, recycled air.

 

Throughout showering, suiting up, and claiming his post by the Mako, he cycled through a series of thoughts, theories, and rationales. It wasn't the idea of fucking Shepard that bothered him. She was his commanding officer and such fantasies were par for the course with any blue-blooded turian, even if her own is red. If it was just tension, he could work it out next time they docked on the Citadel.  No, it was that the dream wasn't about fucking; it wasn't even really about sex, though that cushioned the blow of the underlying theme. He cared about her. He cared _for_ her.

Crap, he thought again.

She was perplexing; the living embodiment of paradoxes. She preferred to talk instead of fight, but she was a meat shield by class and an adept killer by training. She was a Spectre, effectively above the law, but followed the rules and all the red tape involved like a devout practitioner. She would stand around for hours on end to hear stories about the lives of her crew, but getting personal information out of her was like pulling a krogan’s tooth.

She was kind and patient with a ferocity on the battlefield that left scores dead in her wake. She was soft-spoken with a lexicon of curses and a ready wit that could flay a person alive. She was a case he couldn't crack and he never wanted to stop investigating.

He leaned his throbbing head against the cool frame of the Mako. That was the problem. He spent too much time with her. Guarding her six went from a duty to a habit to an innate behaviour.   Of course he cared— _about_ her. It was his duty. When they took down Saren and he reapplied for Spectre training, she would become a fond but distant memory.

The idea only made him feel worse.

No. This was her fault. She was too friendly, too informal, and an incorrigible flirt. Hell, the last time they were on the Citadel, she had that especially obnoxious volus vender panting to find the scope she was in the market for. Who knew volus got so turned on by haggling? And, of course, Liara and Alenko followed her every movement with blushes and sighs. They wouldn't behave that way if they weren't encouraged.

Right? Yes. Right. There, so she wasn't so kind and virtuous and so damned perfect. She trifled with finer feelings, she had terrible taste in music, and she treated the Mako like a piece of crap.

It was, in all truthfulness, a piece of crap. Badly engineered and executed, even the most adroit driver would have difficulty managing it. But was that any excuse to drag its weak suspension over ragged, sheer rock or constantly shift gears on the fly, wreaking havoc on the propulsion system?

Smashing the nose into geth armatures, well that he could understand.

Still, why did he become the chief mechanic on Shepard’s chew toy?  He didn't sign up for that. No, she played it too safe. When Saren had his talons wrapped around her neck, she should have slit his throat.

He was good and angry when Shepard came down to the hold to ask him and Wrex to be ready to drop in fifteen.

Wrex had been shooting him gloating looks and huffing smug chuckles in his direction all morning. Of course, he smiled ingratiatingly to Shepard now.

“What about Tali?” Garrus snapped and his irritated tones caused Shepard to give him a long look.

“She had a suit breech last night. Dr. Chakwas is loading her up on antibiotics.” Then, as though coming to a conclusion, she added kindly, “She'll be fine.” 

“You worry too much,” Wrex rumbled with a jeer. 

Shepard patted Garrus’ armoured arm in passing, already occupied with stocking the Mako. “I think it's sweet.” 

He flinched and Wrex chuckled mockingly again. “Shut up, Wrex.” 

Taking out geth did nothing to soothe Garrus’ mood. They just weren't as fun to shoot as, say, a rachni and didn't offer the visceral gore organics provided to satisfy blood lust. Still, the ever-calming ritual of target-breathe-fire was something. But as they swept the building for any remaining synthetics and supplies, Shepard asked him in a low tone, “You okay? You've been really quiet today.” 

Garrus watched Wrex kick aside the head of a geth shock trooper the former had taken out with a well-placed shot. It was true. He didn't even boast about that one over the comms. “I'm fine. Just tired.” And before she could say anything else, he shouldered his rifle and walked away. 

A few minutes later, with an all-clear from their scans as well as old-fashioned ocular observations, Shepard gave the order to head back to the Mako. The ride back to the LZ began uneventfully enough. Wrex was telling Shepard a story about the time he took out an entire STG unit and Garrus was looking forward to stewing in his thoughts in the Shepard-free nether regions of the Mako’s undercarriage, where little actual skill or concentration was needed to run the routine post-mission diagnostics when the entire vehicle shook from impact.

 Shepard always sounded unnaturally calm whenever lives were at stake. “Shields?”

 “Piss-lights barely touched us,” Wrex scoffed.

 “Visual?”

Garrus had already taken over the turret’s controls. “They're jamming us but I can see fine from here.”

“Good. Wrex, I need you on the guns. Garrus, damping and overload. Buckle up.” 

He wanted to protest, but she was right. Tali would be in his position if she weren't laid up and Wrex couldn't do much from inside the Mako. “Understood.”

Garrus had his omni-tool primed when Wrex took over the turret. There was little art to the battlemaster’s technique, but it got the job done. Then an armature took out one of the mounted machine guns and Shepard threw the gears with a disregard for their fragility that would have made any engineer weep before she slammed them headlong into the shuddering geth.

“Shepard!” His subvocals were scratchy with rebuke. It wasn't the impact or the lack of finesse, it was all the repair work adding up in his head.

“Sorry,” she returned, not sounding very remorseful at all. To add insult to injury, she shifted in reverse, grinding over the remaining geth.

“Hah! I like your style, Shepard.” Of course, Wrex looked pleased with her.

“You would,” Garrus growled in return.

Now that they weren't in any significant danger, Shepard’s voice cut in loudly, “Guys! We good?”

Wrex grunted an affirmative and Garrus sent out one last overload command, just to be on the safe side. “Looks like it.”

“Good.” The noise that the Mako made when she tried to drive forward was not, however.

“Fuck,” she whispered under her breath before she tried again. “Shit,” she added when it didn't budge.

It was the perfect excuse to finally yell at her with just cause. “What the hell did you do?”

Now she looked remorseful. “Uh, well…”

But he was already tearing away his harness. “I can't believe this. You—" He popped the hatch with vicious motion as Shepard unbuckled her harness, fully intent on following him out. “No! I'll go!” If a seven-foot-tall turian in full combat armour could be described as flinging himself out of an armoured vehicle in a huff, that would be how Garrus climbed out of the Mako.

Shepard was halfway out after him when she shot Wrex a look. He had settled into his seat during her exchange with the turian and was now negligently cleaning his talons with his combat knife. “Fine,” he grunted, tucking it away. “I love babysitting.”

By the time all three of them were on the ground, Garrus was glaring at Shepard, arms crossed tightly against his chest piece. “We’re stuck.”

“Wrex, would you check the perimeter?” When he sloped away with a grunt, shotgun casually positioned to fire, Shepard pushed her visor up, tucking her hair out of her face. “The stuck part I understand. But can't we,” she waved her hands at the Mako, “dig her out or something?”

“Dig her out?” His voice climbed with each word. “You somehow managed to lodge a piece of geth into chassis and then merge all three into _rock._ There's nothing to dig!”

Shepard put her hands up in surrender. “Okay. I'm sorry. I get it. Should I get Adams down here?”

“No, it's just a job for a _mechanic.”_ Shepard stared at him and he could practically see her swiftly connect the broken lines of thought. The Vakarian clan, his standing in the Hierarchy, the uneducated speech and uncouth manner of Lilihierax, the mechanic on Noveria. She opened her mouth, no doubt to say something apologetic or claim ignorance, but he wouldn't let her speak. “It’s fine, Shepard,” he cut in curtly. “I just need to get under there.”

She was still staring at him, with the same helpless and frustrated look she got when she failed a hack. He always felt secretly gratified by her near inability to decrypt or infiltrate tech. It felt nice to be better at something, and, in his mood, it made him feel good that she knew it too. When she finally had space to speak, her voice was softer. “I'm smaller than you. Just tell me what to do.”

“It's _fine,”_ he snapped again, tugging at the clasps of his armour with more force than necessary. “I'm not going to let my commanding officer put herself in danger.”

“Garrus,” she began with a sigh, then seemed to think better of it. Acquiescently, she tapped her comm. “Wrex?” The line crackled across the trio and Shepard turned, walking away a few feet past the geth carcasses in hopes of a better signal. “Wrex, do you copy?”

“Yeah. There's nothing out here.”

“Copy. Get back here. Over.”

Wrex grunted an affirmative along the open channel. She turned around, surveying the area herself before she returned to the moored car. By that time, Garrus had stacked his armour and weapons near the Mako. He only looked at her long enough to see she had stopped abruptly before he dropped down to the ground with a curse that didn't translate to human ears, manoeuvring to get as far under the vehicle as possible.

He didn't see her stare, or her mouth open, then close as she visibly swallowed. He certainly didn't see her lick, then bite her bottom lip.

He did hear when Wrex returned, however, and the conversation that followed.

“Shepard.”

Silence.

“Shepard,” more firmly this time.

“Oh! Wrex.”

“What's the kid doing in his undersuit?”

“He's, uh—” She sounded hoarse and cleared her throat. “Garrus says the Mako’s stuck—piece of geth from earlier, but he can get her out.”

“You're smaller.”

“I know, I—"

“He wouldn't let you get out of your armour. Put yourself in danger.”

She sounded hesitant to agree, “It’s not like he _ordered_ me not to—"

“Ha. Figures that he did.”

“What?” She didn't sound angry, just confused.

“Nothing. Listen. I want to talk to you later. In private.”

“Of course. My door’s always open.”

“Yeah, don't let the maiden or the boy hear that.”

“Wrex,” she started warningly.

The conversation came to a close with that.

 

In the end, it took brute force to wrench the geth’s limb out of the chassis. By the time he pried it loose and the Mako’s undercarriage creaked warningly, he was exhausted, dirty, and so very ready to be picked up off this spirits-forsaken planet. The manual labour had bled off the majority of his anger, so he didn't kick out from under the car as furiously as he swung underneath it.

He stalked toward Shepard and Wrex, wiping the combined fluids of the geth and the Mako off his gloves and onto his tightly swathed thighs. “That should do it. We’re good to—"

Shepard was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, no trace or mirth in her eyes or the twist of humour to her mouth.

Crap, he thought. Had he… had he scared her? Frightened her with his anger? She was so easy around him and Tali and Wrex that he often forgot she hadn't worked among others not of her kind before. Still, she didn't behave like Williams did or Pressly, either.

“Shepard?”

He saw her throat work and her eyes blink rapidly before she spoke. Now he felt like such a complete ass. She had been only kind and friendly to him and he spent the day treating her terribly because of a figment of his imagination. A dream.

“Good,” she got out thickly, turning abruptly toward the Mako.  “Suit up and I'll call for pick up.”

The ride to the LZ was painfully silent but thankfully short. Shepard drove like a cadet: slowly, carefully, and with a death grip on the wheel. Garrus briefly entertained a few short phrases to apologise to her, but discarded the attempt when he realised Wrex hadn't mocked, laughed at, or otherwise abused either him or Shepard since the former’s conversation with the Commander while he was under the Mako.

Wrex, in fact, was watching Shepard with what could only be described with a sort of paternal concern. The craggy krogan seemed to take it as a personal affront that, not only was Shepard an orphan, but that any human parent, graced with fertility, would so carelessly die before their young had grown old enough to take care of themselves.

Garrus, upon learning the circumstances surrounding one Ari Shepard’s life and death, was inclined to agree about the careless death and avoidable heartbreak the father gifted upon the daughter, but he'd be torn limb from limb by a pack hungry varren before he would ever admit it. The little she spoke of him made it clear that she adored the crook and would defend any and all of his actions to the last. It seemed to him that Shepard had a habit of turning a blind eye to the faults of people she loved.

 **********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

Her daily rounds were skewed by the delay planet-side, and he was grateful for time underneath the Mako to think up a plausible excuse for his behaviour that skirted the truth without actually lying. It was hours before he settled on something, but by the time he emerged, sore and hungry, he realised she wasn't going to come at all.

Why the hell not, he thought. He'd never actually made good on her so-called open-door policy, but her quarters were by the mess. He was sure there was a human phrase for achieving two goals with one action, but damned if he could think of it now.

The elevator was even slower when there was no one to talk to, and he was considering asking Adams to let him see if he could calibrate the hydraulics when the doors finally slid open.

The dextro rations were thoughtfully labelled, and still in rather good supply from the last time they docked at the Citadel. Garrus was considering his options when he heard a door swoop open.

Shepard was just heading out of the med-bay. Even to his eyes, she looked tired.

He grabbed a tub of some vat grown meat and cultured tubers and then, for additional support, a somewhat stale-tasting beer he had hidden in the depths of the fridge. “Hey. You okay?”

She paused, her eyes briefly widening before she glanced away. That was not surprise, he knew by now, but embarrassment. “Yeah. Just checking on Tali.”

He set his food to reheat, then leaned against Kaidan’s work console, pulling the bottle open. “She okay?”

He was not unaware that their positions were somewhat reversed. Normally she was the one who leaned against the Mako, self-assured and casual, while he over-thought the situation, or worse, didn't think at all.

She crossed her arms, putting her weight on her left leg, which was closer to her quarters than the elevator. “She's not feeling great, but Dr. Chakwas says she'll be fine in a day or two.”

He nodded, taking a swig of the cheap brew. “That's good to hear,” he said after swallowing.

“Listen, Garrus—"

“Look, Shepard—"

They both stopped as they interrupted each other and for the first time since that morning, he saw her smile. His food beeped, but he ignored it, setting the bottle down on the console. “I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't sleep well, my omni-tool didn't go off, it was just one of those days. It's no excuse but—"

Her smile faded, replaced by a brow knit with consternation. “Garrus, I never meant to make you feel undervalued or unappreciated. You're—" She paused, making sure she held his gaze. “You're the most valuable member of my team. I don't think we—I don't think I could have gotten this far without you. If working on the Mako is such a problem—"

“No!” Garrus, dumbfounded, finally found his voice. Unfortunately, in that loudly awkward way that seemed to happen around Shepard. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down, but not before he saw her smile. “Uh, I just mean that's it fine. Really. Like I said, just a bad day.”

“So, you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

He looked up to see that playful curve on her mouth and was momentarily distracted by the memory of it in his dreams. “What?”

She stepped forward, reaching over him to pull his food out of the microwave. The beeping finally stopped, but he didn't notice. He was preoccupied by the smell of her hair (detergent, unscented, he noted in his mental file labelled Shepard) the way her body twisted so fluidly, and the pink hint of that scar where her shirt pulled up from her waist. “It's an expression. When everything seems to go wrong from the minute you wake up.”

“Oh,” he said vaguely, not quite sure what he was pretending to understand. Most valuable? He thought dazedly. _She_ couldn't do this without _him?_

He watched her set his meal on the closest mess table without grasping the purpose of her movements. It was like observing her in a dream again.

Then she reached over him once more, this time to take a bottle of water out of the fridge. She was so close that he could see the individual links of the delicate chain she wore around her neck. He froze, willing himself not to do all the things his alter ego had done and wanted to do when last he slept.

She leaned against the cold metal doors, the same way she leaned against the Mako, and twisted off the cap. “Don't worry. Happens to the best of us.”

The words sounded familiar, but he was too entranced by the lines of her throat as she tilted her head back, drinking deeply, to think much of it.

He flexed his talons, then grabbed his own bottle lest he grab something else.

She swallowed and when he still didn't speak, she tilted her head. “Garrus?”

“Yeah, right, I hear you.” He hoped he didn't sound as confused and conflicted as he felt.

She pushed off from the fridge, her shoulder briefly brushing his as she granted him another smile. “Well, I'll let you get to it. Good night.”

“Good night, Shepard.”

He watched her dazedly, trying to piece together how he ended up back in this familiar position.  He almost reached for his beer on Alenko’s console before he remembered it was in his hand.

Wait. Alenko. Hadn’t he said those familiar words to him this morning? Quickly, he looked to her nearby quarters, but the doors had already closed.

And once again he wasn't sure of anything to do with Shepard at all.

 

 


	10. The Long Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus attend a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for all her hard beta work. Your comments have been amazing, dear readers. Thank you!

**The Citadel, 2183**

 

Shepard was never one for parties. She actually felt most comfortable in crowds, but hours of forced merriment and small talk wore on her. She preferred to talk to people one on one, and preferably when they were sober.

Her squad and crew, however, deserved to indulge in some fun and games after the long road to defeating Saren and taking down Sovereign. She was no tyrant and understood their need to blow off steam, so she readily agreed to a gathering at Flux, once her shoulder and ribs were knitted back together. Again.

She mixed and mingled, danced poorly when asked, and even drank a fruity, frozen concoction that contained more alcohol than she had in a year. Which was to say more than an ounce. She considered her debt to society paid and retreated to a table far in the back, nursing her third glass of ice water.

Garrus found her eventually, beer bottle in hand as he sauntered over to her booth with a confident swagger that wasn’t borne of alcohol, and a loose-limbed grace that was perhaps aided by it. “You’re not drinking.”

It was nice to see him the way his self-assurance took hold over his self-doubt in the past several months. She felt a twinge of pride as she shot back without heat and a teasing smile, “And you call yourself a detective.”

He gestured to her water with his bottle. “Can I get you something?”

She shook her head, rubbing the soft arm of her leather jacket. It felt so goddamn glorious to be in civvies. “No thanks. I’m good.”

He dropped down into the booth next to her, sprawling his long legs in front of him. She tried to bite back a smile at the familiar posture of males making themselves comfortable by taking up as much space as possible. She took great solace in finding similarities between species. After he took a swig of his drink, he seemed to regard her outfit for the first time. “Nice jacket,” he drawled.

Shepard felt a thrill in her stomach at the tone. As a rule, she flirted, rather shamelessly, with Garrus, and he stammered or shifted nervously, or sometimes even engaged. He had never fired the first shot. Perhaps it was her surprise at this burst of assertiveness, or maybe it was the wonders of his voice, but she found herself telling him, “Thanks. I’ve had it since I was eighteen.”

“Really?” He said again in that voice, with that tone, and she found herself singing like the fabled canary.

“Yeah, I bought it with my first paycheck from the Alliance. There was this little store on Christopher Street, in my old neighbourhood, that sells them. They cost a month’s rent, but I think, cost-per-wear, it’s been a good investment.” She felt warm admitting all of this somehow and took a drink of her own.

Garrus looked like she had just given him the code to the Spectre Requisitions vault. Then, her arm twinged and she rubbed at it again.

He sat up at the movement. “How’s the shoulder?”

She winced as she reflexively rolled it. “Hurts, but I’ll live.”

He settled laconically against the cushioned back of the booth. “Had me worried there for a second, you know.”

She tilted her head up at him with an amiable, if self-deprecating smirk. “Sorry. You should know my bum shoulder and I go way back.”

He looked down at her, and she thought how nice it always was to talk to him, flirting aside. It never felt like a chore or a social exercise. It always felt natural and comfortable.

“How’d you bust it in the first place? I mean, aside from the time half the Citadel fell on you.”

She grinned and swatted at him. He flicked his mandibles back and toasted his beer at her. “It wasn’t half the Citadel.”

He corrected himself with the bombastic flair of false humility. “Sorry, half of the Presidium.”

“A little bit of the ceiling. Anyway, it’s stupid,” she demurred, still smiling.

“Aw, come on. You can tell me.” He jostled her uninjured shoulder with his own.

She confessed, very casually, “I ran into a tree.”

He sputtered and coughed into his beer. “What, like a tree, tree?”

She smothered a laugh and leaned back into the booth. “Exactly like a tree. It was in Rio, on Earth. That’s where N training is. They left us for three days in the jungle in high summer. Made Therum look like a cool breeze. Anyway, I rationed my water badly, collapsed, and found my face in a nest of snakes. Really, the total N7 package you see here, right?” She shuddered in memory, though she tried to shake it off with a laugh. “I basically ran into a tree. Shoulder first. That was the first time.”

He slung his arm on the seat behind them, his long legs still spread and kicked out as he gave a low chirp. “I’m impressed. Shepard versus tree.”

She neither stiffened nor relaxed, though her heart picked up its pace. Her voice was light and even as she said, “Tree one. Oh. Hey. A pun. Tree one, Shepard zero. The tree won.”

He laughed so loudly people turned. “Bad puns are my line. I’m only good at so many things.”

Shepard shoved him with her good shoulder this time, forgetting any momentary, amorous thoughts to be a good friend instead.  “Hey, that’s not true. I think you’re pretty awesome at a lot of things.”

Garrus laughed self-consciously in return, taking another sip of his beer instead of answering. They were quiet for a while, in companionable silence. His remained in that graceful sprawl, arm still draped behind her.  She sipped her ice water.

After a while, he spoke up, the nervous pitch of his subvocals making him sound youthful, “Hey, Shepard?”

She looked up at him. “Yeah?”

He glanced away, occupying himself with his bottle. “Is it like a, an addiction thing or…?”

She stared at him, a picture of bafflement. “What?”

He indicated her water. “No offence. I mean, I don’t care. Just, turians have a different approach to drug and alcohol use. I mean, if this,” he held up his beer, “makes you uncomfortable—”

She put her hand on top of his gloved one, above her shoulder.   “That’s very sweet, but no. It’s not an addiction thing. Or a religion thing. I’m not a teetotaller.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve never really seen you drink and it is a party. I mean, you should enjoy yourself. You’re allowed.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed.  

She gave his hand a reassuring pat before she dropped it.  Her voice was soft as she confided, “My head was never a great place to be before the prothean beacon. Adding another mind-altering substance to the mix doesn’t seem like a great idea to me. And,” she added teasingly, “I think you might have noticed I’m not too concerned about what other people think of me.”

Garrus looked quite sombre as he digested this information. He steadfastly focused on his beer, only the tentative timbre of his subvocals gave himself away. “Shepard?”

The tone would have normally set her on edge, but in him, it made her want to sooth and encourage. “Yeah?”

He moved his arm to hold his beer with both hands and leaned forward into the table.  “Do you enjoy this? I don’t mean the party,” he added hastily. “I mean, you know, this. The Alliance. Being a Spectre.”

Shepard found herself quiet for a long while. A part of her didn’t want to disillusion him. His idealism was such a valuable, admirable quality. On the other hand, she couldn’t bring herself to lie or otherwise prevaricate to him, the way she could with others. In the silence, he finished his beer and leaned back against the booth once more, stretching his legs again.

Finally, she said, so quietly that it was almost lost in the bass of the club, “Sometimes. Not really.”

To her surprise, Garrus just nodded, as though he already knew her answer. It seemed being in the right further relaxed him, because his arm reclaimed its place on the back of the booth.  “So why do you do it?”

She sighed and leaned her head back. One of these days she was either going to have to bite the bullet and cut her hair back to regulation length or tie it up in a knot. She grimaced at the unwelcome thought. “I’m good at it. It’s my job. Not everyone likes their job. You know that.”

Garrus made a dismissive gesture with his shoulders and cowl. “Yeah, but—”

She straightened, turning her head to look at him. “Like I said, I owe them a debt. The Alliance saved my life.”

He nodded in agreement, though he looked unhappy about it. She thought that he really did chafe under bad orders and smiled.  “If you’re half as good a Spectre as you are a detective, well, the galaxy better watch out. I kind of feel bad for your targets already.”

Garrus looked away, embarrassed by praise once more. “Maybe they’ll let us partner up.”

She found herself grinning at the idea. “Oh, they better. The heroes of the Citadel, back in action together. Who could resist?” There was a beat, and though her tone was still light, her eyes were serious. “You better reply to my emails.”

His mandibles fluttered, still abashed, then flexed in a fond grin. “You and my sister. I will.”

She made sure to keep his eye as she told him firmly, “I’m going to miss you, you know.”

He didn’t look away, but rather sank into his former confident sprawl in the booth. “Of course you will. Who’s going to take out those geth creepers for you?”

She shuddered reflexively and he laughed. “Not funny, Vakarian. Those things are _awful.”_

The arm draped behind her very gingerly moved to embrace her shoulder. “I’ll miss you, too.”


	11. She's Not There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus makes some calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her awesome beta work.
> 
> And the kudos and comments, you guys! They make my week!

**The Citadel, 2184**

The hardest part of Shepard’s memorial service might have been seeing Joker. The former pilot wore his disgrace at being discharged like a greasy, alcohol-scented cloak. His hair was matted beneath his trademark cap and his formerly sleek beard was shaggy and uneven.

Garrus couldn’t bear to watch him, skulking and miserable by the exit, any more than he could stand to listen to another man with a grey beard extol Shepard’s virtues whilst simultaneously hinting that she wasn’t necessarily to be believed about the more unbelievable theories of the origins of the geth attack on the Citadel.

It made Garrus furious to sit there, unable to break with millennium old beliefs of respecting status and betters to interrupt and set the gathering straight. When the next speaker brought up Shepard’s gallantry on Akuze and then hinted that the experience left her ‘changed,’ he stood up and intercepted Joker. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

At the bar, Joker hunched over his shot and chaser.  “You know, I always thought you had a stick up your ass, but Shepard said you were a good guy.”

Garrus stared into the depths of his horosk. It had been that kind of day. “She had a way of seeing the best in people.”

Joker nodded. “Yeah. She was a freaking optimist, but not in that sickening sunshine and rainbows way.”

Though it had hurt to think about her at all, it was comforting to sit next to Joker. Tali had worshipped Shepard like an older sister and Wrex had grown fond of her, but Joker might have been the only person on the _Normandy_ who got to know her as well as Garrus did. He found his subvocals were thick when he finally said, “She was hopeful.”

Joker nodded again, looking as mournful as Garrus felt. He lifted his shot glass, not very high, but enough to signify the gesture. “Yeah. To Shepard.”

Garrus did the same. “To Shepard.”

They both drank in silence after that.

Now, several hours and drinks later, he found himself on a vid call with his father, recounting the entire, awful day and his doubts about who or what was responsible for Shepard’s death.

“It’s just… I know it wasn’t geth.”

“But you fought geth. Geth aided these Reapers.” Castis’ even, dual-toned voice wavered unsurely over the word.

Garrus was slumped on his couch, and didn’t really bother to focus on the vid screen as he weakly argued, “Yeah, but…” He felt too drunk and disconsolate to explain his hunch to his father.

“Do you really think it was something else or do you _want_ it to be something else?”

Garrus didn’t respond immediately, which seemed to both pleasantly surprise and impress Castis. When he finally spoke, he sat up, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I _know_ it was something else. You know that human saying, a gut feeling? I was right about Saren and I know that I’m right about this.”

To Garrus’ surprise, Castis did not sound dismissive, but rather encouraging with his, albeit unwelcome, advice. “You know what to do, then. You investigate it—"

He groaned in frustration, unable to express how futile the effort would be, though he tried anyway. “Dad, come on. No one has listened about what we saw on Virmire or Feros or Ilos. They won’t listen about this, either.”

Castis sighed across the connection, though his subvocals were not unkind. “And here I thought that commander had taught you some patience and a respect for the rules.”

Garrus’ head sunk into his cowl. He couldn’t look at his father. In a quiet voice, he admitted, “I miss her.”

Castis reached out, as though to rub his son’s fringe, though the latter only saw a flicker of movement in light and shadows. “I know.” There was a pause, and then his father cleared his throat.  “How are you? You look tired.”

Garrus made a dismissive gesture, lifting his head. “Fine. Busy. How’s Mom?”

Castis sounded amused, but his mandibles were flat against his face. “Impossible. Maybe you can convince her to see a doctor.”

Garrus was immediately alert. “What’s going on?”

Castis made the same gesture Garrus had done just moments ago. “I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s having some numbness in her hands. Broke the _lararium._ ”

Garrus and Castis were not superstitious but Lavinia was, so out of habit, they both automatically uttered a phrase to ward off any malevolent-inspired spirits.

Neither of them seemed too concerned, but the younger said, “Next time I talk to her, I’ll see what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

 

So maybe he had used too much _positive reinforcement_ on that last perp. It really didn’t warrant a week of checking hanar evangelicals’ licenses. And, after seeing those pods on Ilos, Garrus had even less patience when it came to hearing about the Enkindlers.

When his shift was coming to a welcomed end, he noticed a newly hung poster on one of the least ostentatious houses of worship on the row. It reminded readers that the Day of Atonement was in two weeks and urged those who intended to attend the Mourner’s Prayer to leave the name of loved ones who departed in the past year with the Rabbi Rosenberg’s assistant so it could be read at the service. Garrus remembered, around the same time last year, Shepard had lit a candle in a glass cup in the mess. When she saw him watching the odd display, as candles were hardly common on ships, she just said it was a memorial candle. That one time, he allowed himself to go on the extranet for more information and discovered it was a tradition among her people.

  
He walked past the doorway three times before he went inside.

The offices were by the entrance, which was a relief, as group of little human children were already staring with wide-eyed interest and concern at his hardsuit uniform. A plump, matronly-looking woman stood up from behind her desk and called with some alarm, “Can I help you, officer?”

Garrus approached her desk with measured steps so as not to distress her further. “Yeah, I had a question about that sign outside. I was wondering if I could speak to Mr. Rosenberg.”

Her round eyes grew rounder at the request and his uniform. “The rabbi? Oh my—did something happen?”

He maintained a professional stance, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Uh, no. It's a personal matter.”

The lady was positively flummoxed. “Oh. I see,” she said uncertainly. “Well, let me see when he’s available…” Never taking her eyes off of him, she picked up an older-fashioned, hand-held voice comm, waited a moment, then said, “There's an Officer—” She gave Garrus an expectant look.

He fought not to shuffle his feet or clear his throat. “Detective Vakarian.”

“Detective Vakarian who would like to see you.” Another pause, then, she said quickly, “No, no. He says it’s a _personal_ matter.” She paused again, then said quickly, “I _think_ so. Yes. Of course.” She ended the call and stood, indicating the door behind her. “Detective Vakarian? The rabbi can see you now.”

He could still feel her staring as he went into the office.

A reasonably short human with a reddish-brown beard that reminded him of Joker’s and a rounded stomach that did not, was waiting behind another desk, though much friendlier than his predecessor. He held out his hand. “Detective Vakarian. Phil Rosenberg. What can I help you with?”

They shook hands and the man gestured widely to the chairs across from him. “Sit, sit.” As Garrus carefully sat in the insubstantial-looking seating, he began, “Well, uh, I had a friend. Who died.”

If the rabbi was confused as to why a turian in his C-sec hardsuit was telling him this, he didn’t show it by his sympathetic expression or voice. “Oh, I see. I'm very sorry to hear that.”

Garrus nodded, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The rabbi stroked his beard thoughtfully. “This friend was a good friend?”

Garrus nodded again, looking down at the industrial-grade carpeting no one could seem to escape in offices on the Citadel. “Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

The rabbi went on in the same mien. “And she was of the Jewish faith?”

Garrus nodded for a third time and looked at his gloves. They were scuffed. “Yeah. I remember, once—she lit this candle in a glass—she said it was memorial candle…”

The rabbi leaned back in his seat, touching the small black cap on his head so it didn’t fall off. “Ah, yes. A _yahrzeit_ candle. We light one for our loved ones when they die, then on the anniversary of their deaths, and on _Yom Kippur._ The Day of Atonement.”

Garrus continued his thorough examination of his gloves. “Yeah, I saw the sign and, well… My friend, she doesn't— didn't have any family living.”

The rabbi’s bushy eyebrows lifted to his receding hairline. “No? A _shanda._ ” Then, as though realising the word might not translate, he added, _“_ A shame.”

Garrus marshalled his strength and looked up. “Would it be okay, I guess, if I lit one for her? On that day?”

The rabbi rubbed his beard, considering the request. “It would be unusual, but you say she was a good friend, yes?”

Garrus, encouraged, did not look away again. “Yeah.”

“And she has no family to do it?”

“Right,” Garrus confirmed eagerly.

The rabbi was silent but for the careful petting of his beard. Finally, he said, “I think it would be a far greater sin to let your friend go unremembered.”

Still a little unbelievable, Garrus’ mandibles fluttered in surprise. “You do?”

“Yes indeed.” The rabbi hopped up and looked around his small office. “Now…” Then, he bellowed through the door, “Deborah! Which cabinet are the candles—! Oh! Never mind!” Deborah, apparently used to this, did not appear at the door, which remained closed. After some rifling through some truly disorganised shelves that would have made any turian boot camp graduate cringe, the bearded man triumphantly discovered a box of glass-encased candles and extracted one. He set it on his desk, in front of Garrus. “Here. Would you like me to give you a copy of the _Kaddish_?”

Garrus took the proffered candle, then started. “The..?”

The rabbi straightened the cap on his head again. “The Mourner’s Prayer. Your translator picks up Hebrew, yes?”

Garrus tapped the candle to the interface over his eye. “Yeah, my visor will.” He stood up. “Thank you.”

“Never mind. This technology! It will translate it into anything.” The rabbi held out his hand and they shook once more. “You're welcome.”

After dinner that night, the candle and datapad sitting on his counter and his omni-tool primed to alert him of the day on which they should be used, his father called Garrus.

“How’s the case coming along?” Castis asked after they exchanged greetings.

Garrus sighed, both relieved the brief demotion to hanar monitoring hadn’t come up, but frustrated with the question. “I know he’s guilty, but we can’t exactly pin the tainted dust to him.”

Castis was unmoved by this information. “So you work with what you have.”

Garrus took a sip of his beer left over from dinner, then waved the bottle at his father’s image indifferently, “Yeah, but—"

Castis’ exasperated dual-toned voice came raining down the comm-line. “No, Garrus. Why do we need to keep having this conversation over and over again? There’s a right way to do things. Either do it the right way or don’t do it at all.”

“Yeah, right, like I have a choice,” his son retorted bitterly.

Castis’ mandibles were pinched against his face and he crossed his arms. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Garrus’ pinned his father with a glare. “You know exactly what that means.”

Castis sighed and looked at his ceiling on Palaven. “If you’re referring to your oft-lamented prospects of Spectre training—"

Garrus scoffed.

One pair of blue eyes bored into the other. “I don’t regret stepping in the way. You were too rash, too impulsive. It’s my duty—"

Garrus waved his beer at his father once again. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Got to protect your place in the Hierarchy.”

Castis leaned forward so that he filled the vid-screen. “Hierarchy be damned. I was trying to protect you.”

“I’m not a kid,” his son growled petulantly.

Castis’ talon would have stabbed through the vid-screen onto the Citadel if it weren’t for quantum physics. “You’re _my_ kid.”

Garrus’ brief laugh was not born of amusement. “So, what, are you going to call your buddies and interfere again?”

Castis’ subvocals went soft. “No.”

Still, his son sneered, “Yeah? Lost your connections since retiring?”

Now the subvocals were downright gentle. “No. I have more faith in you now.”

Garrus laughed that laugh again. “Yeah, right.”

Castis’ voice became firm again, but the gentle subvocals remained. “Yes. Right. I was… sceptical of your decision to leave C-Sec and follow a Spectre, but I can say that I was wrong. You’re less rash and more thoughtful. You’ve shown that you can respect others opinions and still hold your own. You listen now, Garrus, and that’s important. You’ve grown into the man I always knew you could be.”

He wanted to tell him that he only ever started to listen because he wanted to hear what Shepard had to say. The thought of her made his throat feel tight. “She did that.”

Castis’ mandibles flexed, but his tone turned rueful. “Perhaps, and I thank the lady if she did,” Now he sounded firm once more, “But I think it was all you. You’ve always be been capable. Now you’re ready.”

His son was speechless. He stared at the screen, unable to speak. Suddenly, his mother’s voice could be heard down the line, as though she just walked into the room Castis occupied. “Is that Garrus? Let me say hello.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rob, the human he had been partnered with since his return to C-Sec, invited him over to his apartment for yet another human holiday: Thanksgiving.

Garrus immediately ransacked his brain for plausible excuses that brooked no argument.

Rob, indolently seated in his desk chair, wouldn’t hear of it. “C’mon, it'll be fun. We’ll have some beers, watch the game. Stefan will be running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Yaela and her wife are coming, too. She’s turian, too, so we’ll have some dextro tofurkey for you guys.”

Garrus had no idea what that mangled word meant, but he knew he was out of reasons to decline. So he gave in and, when the day came, showed up promptly at four.

“You're early! Never mind, it's almost kick-off. C’mon in.”

‘Early?’ Garrus thought, confused. Did Rob not say four? He surreptitiously checked his omni-tool to confirm the time.  Humans, he thought, were constantly confusing.

Stefan, Rob’s partner, was indeed hectically occupied with preparations for the feast, though he shooed Rob out of the kitchen with a towel when he offered to help. Rob flicked on the vid screen and heartily encouraged Garrus to take a seat on the couch after giving Stefan the wine he brought over. The couple’s furry little creature ignored the admonishments of its owners and settled itself in his lap like it owned it.

Rob had put on football, something every turian C-Sec officer became familiar with when humans joined the force. The players in blue always won, apparently, but the players in green, Rob explained, were famous for stealing defeat from the jaws of victory. Garrus was about to ask why when the first commercial break appeared.

Irissa, the new Asari Councillor, was being interviewed in a heavily promoted segment on Citadel News by the freshly promoted Emily Wong. Stefan came into the living room, dirty dishcloth still in hand, to hear the Councillor say, “… Commander Shepard had a long, documented history of mental illness. We will forever be grateful for the lives she saved, but it must be reiterated that former Spectre Arterius led a geth army to attack the Citadel. These so-called ‘Reapers’ were the delusions of a troubled mind.”

The furry thing—cat—hissed at the vid screen and Garrus couldn't help but agree with it. Councillor Irissa was despicable.

A voice from behind Garrus asked, “What was she really like?”

He didn't answer at first. Garrus was sure Rob would tell his husband to be quiet, but he found his C-sec partner eagerly leaning forward. It appeared to be the same question he had wanted to ask Garrus for a while, too.

Garrus still hesitated, looking down at the creature in his lap. How could he explain Shepard to people who had never met her when he could barely explain her to himself?

Finally, still staring at the furry owner of his lap, he began haltingly, “She wasn't crazy. Not like that. She… she made you want to be the best version of yourself.”

He didn't realise how true that statement was until he unlocked his own door later that night, still picking fur off his clothing. Spectre training delayed, again. Another conviction lost to Omega. Spinning wheels at C-Sec. He still could hear her words: “You're the most valuable member of my team.” Her glowing recommendation letter for Spectre candidacy was still fresh in his mind. Her written words echoed, tantalisingly confident: Strong ethics, exemplary leadership. Finest. Best. Loyal. True.

Chasing some smugglers to Omega might not be exactly like jumping from Ilos to the Citadel in a Mako, but it was a start.

A few days later, as Garrus was finalising arrangements to leave Citadel space, his father called.

“Oh. Hey Dad,” was his son’s falsely nonchalant answer.

Garrus’ apartment was always meagrely decorated and sparsely furnished, but Castis frowned at the bare appearance. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. Your mother is convinced that asari on your rotation finally wore you down.”

Garrus laughed nervously, then coughed. “Ha, no. Just busy.”

Castis’ hands were folded behind his back, as though he were inspecting the scene. “Work?” He inquired lightly.

Garrus stepped into the vid-comm’s lens and straightened his back. “Yeah. Listen, Dad, I got a lead on something and need to follow it through.”

Castis’ mandibles remained flat with suspicion. “Yes? Well, that’s good news.”

Garrus flicked his eyes away. “I guess. I mean, I’ll be busy. I won’t be able to talk much.”

Castis’ own blue eyes became sharply alert. “Is this an undercover assignment? You’ve never done one and—"

“Yeah, kind of.” His son interrupted quickly. “I’m going to be off the grid for a while. I’ll call Mom before I go. Did she see the doctor yet?”

Castis mouth opened, visibly disturbed for a beat, then he closed it and shook his head, resigned. “She has an appointment next month.”

Garrus’ posture relaxed somewhat. “Okay. I’ll try to call her then if I can. I should go.” As the words left his mouth, he looked bitterly amused.

“Wait, Garrus—” Castis put a hand out, as though to reach through the vid-screen.

His son sighed. “Dad—"

Castis lowered his hand and tucked it behind his back once more. “Just be careful, all right?”

A smile, neither bitter nor resentful, but filled with a confidence Castis hadn’t seen on his son’s face in months, filled the vid-screen. “Yeah. Definitely.”

 


	12. Carbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus goes on the extranet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her wonderful beta work.
> 
> This is dedicated to anyone that ever fell down the rabbit hole that is Googling old acquaintances.

**Omega, 2185**

 

 

He honestly didn't think about her that much on Omega. He didn't avoid her memory, but he didn't seek it out, either.

That is, until the day the universe hit Garrus over the head with a sledgehammer benchmarked Shepard.

Maybe it was because one of the dumped cargo—colony kids, by the look of their sunburnt skin and sturdy clothes, had managed to hold onto a broken chain of the same metal as the necklace she used to wear, the tiny charm in the shape of a stylised hand occasionally visible.

_“That's not copper. What is it?”_

_“Oh,” her fingers curled around the slim, bright chain, as though to protect it. “It's rose gold.”_

_“It's nice. Like your fringe. Ah, hair. I mean, the colour’s nice. Not your hair. Wait, I mean—"_

_Her smile was wistful as she cut in gently, “Thanks.”_

Or maybe it was when a vorcha combusted all over a disgusted Butler, and Weaver started laughing the same way Shepard had when that rachni exploded on him on Noveria.

_“Ugh, dammit,_ crap! _This better come off, Shepard!”_

_“Aw, poor little sniper got up close and personal with a bug?”_

_“Just wait until the next geth creeper hops out of my sights.”_

_“Don't even_ joke _about that, Vakarian!”_

Either way, it didn't matter. He couldn't shake her for the rest of day. When the slaver’s head burst like an overripe _cucumis_ , he couldn't shake the feeling that she would have disapproved somehow.

Spirits, he missed her. Whatever his confused feelings were toward the end of their run together, she had been his friend. It didn't matter that they were borne of two completely separate entities; they were nearly automatically in sync. They found the same things amusing, entertaining, or silly. They had the same inquisitive nature and thirst for knowledge. Though their methods differed, their goals were the same. Her morals and sense of justice were impeachable.

She always got his jokes.

It wasn't fair, in the truest sense of the word, that she died. Scum thrived everywhere, as Omega was wont to prove. If the galaxy lost a member of the Blood Pack, it would be better off, but it was infinitely poorer with her loss.

That night cycle, when Mierin decided she had to dance and led Ripper, Vortash, and the rest off for a night of clubbing and drinking, Garrus took the opportunity to pull Sidonis out of rotation and stand watch at the hideout.

As he carried a six pack over the to his private terminal, he was reminded of something his sister once said. Sol, who was tiny and delicate for a turian, and thus had a horrible time in school and worse at boot camp, had once confessed to Garrus that the hardest part of her job was not looking up her tormentors or being assigned to research a peer. She told him that it was like cutting herself; an act of self-harm. He hadn’t understood until that moment, as his talons hovered over his private console.

He should have gotten a drink with Weaver and Butler. He should have taken up Melenis’ offer to blow off steam again. He should not be doing this.

He pressed enter.

The Systems Alliance Naval Database was surprisingly easy to hack, comparatively speaking. The Blue Suns had higher encryption on their docking codes. Garrus made sure to bounce his location off enough comm buoys to throw the scent off Omega. Though, to be honest, it probably wasn’t necessary. Omega was a hotbed of despicable activity. Hacking a dead woman’s personnel record was a minor, if unsettling crime.

He felt a little sick as the files quickly downloaded and unpixelated. He really should have stopped. There had been time to stop. He could have just closed the folder and deleted it.

He opened the first file.

It was her enlistment papers. Name, age, height, weight. When Shepard said she owed the Alliance a debt, she wasn’t kidding. She traded increments of her life for student loans. GED, B. A. in Sociology, an M.A. in Comparative Historical Sociology and Xeno-Historical Studies. She went to officer candidate school, got a direct commission, and passed proficiency in all of the Council Space’s languages. Not that he needed proof, but Shepard was smart.

The next file was more disturbing. It was an incomplete assortment of paperwork, pre-dating Shepard’s time with the Alliance. Her birth certificate listed a Hannah Shepard as her mother. Shepard had only briefly spoke about her father, but had never mentioned her mother.

Garrus quickly switched over to the extranet.

After narrowing the search by the year and city Shepard was born in, several matches for Hannah Shepard came up. They consisted mostly of headlines for news articles:

_Former A.D.A in serious condition after skycab accident._

_Pregnant criminal defence attorney on life support._

_What a Con! Husband of ex-A.D.A pulls plug on wife same day daughter is born._

Garrus stared at the screen with something a little less than horror. He was going to need something stronger.

Having raided the hideout’s supply of questionable dextro whiskey, he clicked on the second article.

_Former assistant district attorney, 35-year-old Hannah Shepard of Manhattan, remains on life support one week after being involved in a fatal sky cab accident. The driver, 32-year-old DeShawn White, of the Bronx, was killed on impact. The vehicle swerved to avoid another skycab, which was unharmed. Ms. Shepard is 29 weeks pregnant. Doctors at Mt. Sinai Medical Centre in Manhattan are confident she can carry to term on life support. Ms. Shepard’s husband, 37-year-old Ari Shepard of Manhattan, rumoured to be connected with the Kramanov crime family, did not respond to our requests for comment._

Garrus stared at the small picture of the tall, dark woman who was Shepard’s mother, but only found a resemblance in the mouth. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that Shepard’s mother was a lawyer. She inherited something stronger than looks from the woman. She knew how to argue and win.

He switched back to the Shepard’s pre-Alliance file. The next item was a picture of Ari Shepard, dated ten years later, missing half of his head from a close-range pistol. It was a grisly sight, but one he became inured to at C-Sec. He wasn’t surprised to see the case went cold after a few weeks, either.

The man had Shepard’s eyes. Garrus closed the picture.

He couldn’t bear to do more than scan through the paperwork from the New York Office of Child and Family Services. Group homes and runaway reports. He didn’t have the stomach for that.

The next was an arrest record from the 6th Precinct at 233 West 10th Street. Shepard was picked up for loitering and suspicion of soliciting. She was fourteen. Her mugshot was painful to behold. Too much eye makeup and lipstick made her look younger, not older than her years. She was clearly terrified beneath her scowl. Garrus immediately scrolled past it.

The next was a plea bargain, though it hadn’t been made in court. The charges were never filed and duly dropped. Shepard had agreed to inform of the Reds. The officer, a Jimmy Leary, wrote a note on the file that gave Garrus pause. ‘Smart kid. Shame we can’t do more. Try not to collar her again.’

After that, it was a long list of dates, places, and times. Years-long evidence of Shepard’s first deal with an organisation she was indebted to, but not her last.

The final document in that folder was a hospital record. He sensed what it was before he even read the words. Someone in the 10th Street Reds found out about Shepard’s deal and made her pay. The injuries were gruesome, but expected. He didn’t need to see the pictures. It was dated a few weeks before her 18th birthday.

He knew he should stop.  He took another shot and followed it with half a bottle of beer instead.

The next folder was more of her service record up until Akuze, including her scores in basic, which were surprisingly mediocre, and her stated goal, which was to further her education. She expressed interest in intelligence work and a desire to work as an analyst. Like Sol.

Nothing of particular note happened until she earned her B.A, took a direct commission, and was made lieutenant, second class. She was then assigned to the _SSV Bunker Hill_ , serving as an assistant to one Captain David Anderson. She might have remained in that position, or maybe pursued becoming an analyst, if Captain Anderson hadn’t been tasked to host a three-day summit with a rendezvousing turian cruiser, the object of which was to exchange crew members to foster trust, teamwork, and respect between the two species.

From what Garrus read, Shepard had been in charge on converting the _Bunker Hill_ to host the visiting turian crew and organised a dinner for the ranking officers at the end of the exchange. Her attention to detail, far beyond ordering dextro food and calling it a day, earned her an accommodation on her record, while the turian captain she served under in the exercise praised her knowledge of their culture.

Captain Anderson expressed that Shepard could be groomed to become a delegate for the Navy in the Systems Alliance parliament, but had no field experience. He noted that just enough to pull her up a rank or two would make her more desirable to voters. His suggestions were heeded and Shepard was reassigned. After several uneventful missions, she was sent to Akuze.

Garrus needed a double shot after that. Resentful anger burned his gullet more than the whiskey. So the Alliance had always been using her. And Anderson. He had liked Anderson. He thought Anderson had Shepard’s back.

Garrus forgot to use the glass this time as he took another gulp of whiskey.

Akuze was the next folder. It was a surprisingly small document, considering the enormity of the event. Just a basic outline of the mission, Shepard’s public statement of the nearly immediate loss of thirty men and women and the swiftly dwindling numbers as they fought and hid from thresher maws and waited for extraction. Her injuries, namely acid burns and lacerations, and the extended hospital stay and rehabilitation were also documented. Shepard had, apparently, been a model patient.

The real file on Akuze, including her psych records, were probably available with enough digging, but Garrus saw enough. He was already thoroughly ashamed of himself.

But there wasn’t any other way out but through for him that night.

Anderson and some other naval officers sought to bank on Shepard’s hollow victory on Akuze to push their inside agent agenda. Instead of a delegate or parliamentarian, however, they saw the first human Spectre. She was nominated and sent to N training in Brazil, on Earth.

The N records were as minimal as the Akuze file, probably for the same reason. Shepard made a good, if not exemplary showing in most combat and weapons fields, with a high aptitude for rifles. She showed no biotic ability and just scraped by her engineering and technical requirements.

Garrus laughed, with fond amusement and a little patronisation, at her scores.

What she did excel at, far above anyone in her class, was leadership, teamwork, non-linear thinking, negotiations, diplomacy, and problem solving. In the sims, she had the highest score for non-lethal solutions and retained the most living squad members of her N6 class.

She also broke her shoulder twice while training in Rio.

In his mind’s eye, he could see her reflexive roll of it, her amused glances, that secretive smile.

He closed the file, shut down his terminal, and looked out at Archangel’s hideout. There was more, but the desire to read it was gone. He realised it was never about knowing more about her, but earning the trust to hear it from herself. She was his unsolved mystery; the cold case lost above the frozen wasteland of Alchera, and reading dry reports would never sake his thirst for more of her.

As he stared at Erash’s workstation and Montague’s spare omni-tool and Grundan Krul’s extra set of armour, he thought about what Shepard would think about this whole endeavour. He wondered if she’d be proud or encouraging or supportive, but all he could think of was her smile.

He took another pull of whiskey.


	13. I’ve Got My Mind Set on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Illusive man has got patience, time, and a whole lot of spending money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta, [Some_Writer!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer)
> 
> Facts found in The Shadow Broker's dossier on Cerberus were used in this chapter. They can be perused [here.](http://masseffect.wikia.com/wiki/Shadow_Broker_Dossiers/Cerberus)

**Cronos Station, 2185**

 

 

The last time he had seen her, she was as glossy, pink, and empty as a shell.

The figure before him was hardly the most pleasing creature he ever viewed, but she had glowed with luminescence that all people who hold power radiate, whether they be politicians or pop stars. She might have been attractive, perhaps, if she didn’t burn bright with pure, unadulterated hatred especially for him.

That was fine. He didn't need to find his tools comely, nor did he need them to want to bask in his handsome glare of power. He needed them do to their jobs. And Shepard, whose chin was jerked up as defiantly as it was in the oft-used Alliance picture the newsvids liked to show, would do her job no matter how much she hated him.

After all, that is why he put so much time, effort, and money into resurrecting her. She was, indeed, more than a solider or symbol. She was a living embodiment of selflessness. There weren't many people who could put their own petty grudges aside for the greater good. Each lifetime only saw one or two. Losing one before their job was done was unacceptable. 

Pity, he thought, tapping ashes, about her religious proclivities. With a pope in his pocket, beautification of a Cerberus operative, no matter how unwilling a participant, would be a nice addition to the company’s portfolio.

He was sure that he could speak to her in person unmolested. There was something every single soul in the galaxy would commit murder to protect. A home, a lover, a child, a belief, a cause. Shepard would kill to protect each of those souls.  It was why he repeatedly refused Lawson’s request to implant a control chip or modify her memories of Cerberus. Her ideals and morals couldn't be risked by alteration in any way.

But he wasn't so high-minded. He liked the way power enhanced his good looks. He had killed for far less than a searingly contemptuous look of self-righteous fury the daughter of a low-level mobster was projecting through the QED.

Yet, still, he recognised the usefulness of this tool.

“Illusive Man.”

She wore full armour, arms crossed tightly against her chest, as though either could ever protect her from whatever intentions he had toward her.

He recognised the need for this specific tool, but all needs were eventually satisfied, and once used, he discarded all of his tools. He simply wasn't the sentimental sort.


	14. Rinse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard takes a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her wonderful beta work.
> 
> This one is a little shorter than the others.

**_Normandy SR-2,_ ** **2185**

The last thing she remembered about that day above Alchera was the glorious weightlessness. How Atlas might have felt when he tricked Hercules into holding Earth. It had been explained to her in no-nonsense, clinical terms by Lawson, and kinder, broader strokes by Dr. Chakwas. Mercifully, like most victims of traumatic injuries, the details were blissfully blurred from her mind.

Shepard was not the victim this time.

_The impact isn’t deafening. It’s the rattling gasp that won’t stop echoing in her head. Air clogged with blood and flesh, fighting to get in._

She looked like she had committed murder. Her hands were blue. Navy under the nails, indigo around the cuticles, cerulean across her palms, fingers, thumbs, and the backs of her hands. There were streaks of it across her face, spatter marks on her neck, and there was even a clump of hair dyed a curious shade of red violet.

_She’s on her knees, ignorant of bullets, missiles, or even the grenade launcher being removed from her back by white-armoured hands._

She gagged hard, once, and refused to be sick.

_Her hands plunged in to stop the flow, gauntlets thrown somewhere, anywhere. He should feel hard and unpliant, but the gaping wound is meaty and pulpy. She wants to puke and not from disgust, but horror._

The shower took forever. The blood stuck as fast as dye and refused to rinse off despite ungentle scrubbings with the strongest soap.

_She’s talking nonsense, like you would to a toddler taking a fall after some unsteady steps, “You’re okay, Big Guy._ _Show-off. Always got to show me up. You’re fine. I got you. Come on.”_

The water and suds drained away in a shade of azure.

_She only shouts once, sharp and short, when Taylor tries to kick the rifle out of his blindly grasping hands._

When she finally stepped out of the shower, she was as pink and red as a newborn.

_“You’ve got it. See? No one’s taking it away. Just hold on. I’ve got you. Come on.”_

Condensation ran down the mirror and the tracks were reflected in tears on her face. Nothing and everything she saw and felt was familiar and strange. It was like living in a dream; constant deju vù. A _Normandy_ , but not the real _Normandy._ Her face, her body, but not the same; perfected, unblemished, honed and polished. A crew, but not that crew scattered in the stars above and the snow below Alchera. Sarcastic, snappy Joker, haunted behind the eyes. Trusting Tali slipping away from her hand. Calm and collected Dr. Chakwas finding a friend in a bottle. Righteous, dynamic Garrus, unconscious and bleeding on Cerberus hospital sheets.

_Her hands are cramping, but she’s too terrified to chance her tenuous grip. She prays, ‘Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam... please not him, just this once, please.’_

Wrapped in a towel, tucked into the base of the shower, she let herself cry for everything she lost.

_Please._

An hour later, she was in the conference room, and not a trace of blue remained.


	15. The Sexiest Thing Is Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard mods her rifle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her invaluable work. 
> 
> This chapter contains strong opinions, not necessarily held by the author. Reader discretion is advised.

**_Normandy SR-2,_ ** **2185**

“You know,” Garrus put in, “if you held that properly, the kickback wouldn't be so bad.”

“I know,” Shepard admitted without looking up.

“So why don't you?”

“I learned it this way.”

“It would hurt less, though.”

“If I wasn't in pain, how would I know I was alive?” She said it as a joke, but she didn't need to have a second voice box for him to hear the brutal honesty hidden beneath the quip. He was all too familiar with that particular delivery system of self-truth.

Shepard was fiddling with the scope on her rifle. She should have been in the armoury but she avoided any dealings with the Cerberus operatives as much as she could without appearing to actively disdain them. She was too much of a diplomat to do that. It occurred to him that she must be more than a little confused and lonely. Two years ago, the thought wouldn't have entered his head, but he was different now and so was she. He gained the swagger of self-confidence and she flexed her fists more often in self-doubt. His sense of humour, always there, flourished in being voiced, but she had become a bit reticent and smiled less.  And while he certainly didn't mind her presence, or even her weaponry littering his cot, it did make him wonder.

“Can I ask you something?” Garrus asked abruptly.

“Shoot.”

Of course, she said yes. He wanted to be there the day she said no to someone so he could record it for posterity. Maybe see about making it an historical event.

“Unless it's a math question,” she added, interrupting his thoughts. “I just can't help you with that.”

When she came into the main battery that evening, he was scanning his arithmetic, trying to figure out how his calculations were off. So, he asked her to take a look and after a moment of staring at the wall of numbers on the screen, she narrowed her eyes at him as though defrauded and demanded, “Are you some kind of math genius? Do we need to get you one of those huge screens to work on so I'll have something pretty to look at when you try to explain this all to me? Are you secretly half-geth?”

He put his hands up in supplication. “No calculus, I promise.”

She gave a dramatic sigh of relief. “Well then, fire away.”

“How do you know who you can trust?”

She looked up from her work. It was easy to forget what the full intensity of her scrutinous gaze could do to a person if it wasn't often directed at oneself. Sometimes, he almost felt sorry for the poor bastards on the other end of it. Almost.

“The crew, I mean,” he clarified, trying not to look away.

Her expression didn't change but there was a soft quality in her voice, “Is this an Omega question?”

He hesitated. Now, when she asked him things, he took the time to consider the questions rather than quickly report the answers. He had learned to listen rather than wait for his turn to speak. “Maybe,” he allowed, “I guess I was just thinking how crazy this must be for you.”

She looked away, and his mandibles swiftly fluttered with regret, then tightened with awkward concern. “I'm sorry—"

“No, it's fine.” She smiled, as though to reassure him, but her distress was not easily eclipsed.  “It's a good question.”

She was silent for a moment, the way she often was before expressing a deep conviction or confiding a memory. It was one of the first ways he truly learned patience outside of combat. He found he wanted to hear whatever she chose to divulge to him as badly as he wanted to line up the most kill-shots.

“I guess it just comes down to honesty.”

That answer threw him off, not only because the motley crew was mostly made up of social deviants and criminals, but also because Shepard seemed to regard a thief and a merc more highly than a Justicar and a former Alliance comrade. His mandibles were flat against his face in a frown.  “How is someone like Massani more trustworthy than Samara?” he challenged.

“Zaeed, Kasumi, they don't pretend to be something they're not. What you see is what you get. If Taylor and Lawson and Chambers want to delude themselves into thinking Cerberus, and its illustrious leader, are anything more than a xenophobic terrorist scheme, bankrolled by a self-serving megalomaniac bent on despotic rule, then fine. I can't change their minds, but I sure as hell don't trust them as far as I can throw them.”

He glanced behind him and added a number to a decimal point, then let the program run again. “I don't know about that. You've got a pretty good arm.”

That earned a laugh and a subconscious roll of her shoulder. “As for Jack and Grunt, well, I don't think I've ever met anyone as bluntly honest as those two.” She actually had a fond look in her eyes.

“Blunt being the operative word,” he dead panned.

“Yeah,” she grinned, then grew serious again. “Mordin…”

“The genophage.”

“Yeah. Also, I need him in the lab. That's where he can help the most. But Legion—"

“Is geth.”

She gave a breathy laugh, as though embarrassed to have been read so easily. “You know me too well.”

Their eyes met and though the silence was a little charged, it wasn't uncomfortable. “Comes from watching your six all the time.”

She grinned, “ _All_ the time, Detective Vakarian?”

Oh. _That_ tone. He very much liked that tone combined with his obsolete C-Sec title. So much so that he shifted his stance. “Well, it's a really nice six to watch.”

Shepard, despite being fair-complected in a way that only the most stubborn of recessive genes could beget, did not blush. Instead, her eyes would widen momentarily and she’d quickly glance away. Garrus had always privately thought those human body language manuals C-Sec made mandatory reading were crap, but it was always nice to be proven right.

There was something very gratifying about Shepard having the wrong end of the stick for a change. He tried not to lord it over her too much but he was having a hard time suppressing his smug grin. “That leaves Samara and Krios,” he finally put in, not unkindly.

Shepard, who had appeared to be absolutely fascinated with the detached scope of her rifle, resumed her formerly collected demeanour. “They’re as bad as their Cerberus counterparts on the self-delusion front.”

He tilted his head, “How do you mean?”

“Krios is dying,” It was her turn to be blunt. “His kid is going to be an orphan and soon, not to mention he's already heading down a bad path. Why is he wasting his last days on a mission that could quite possibly kill him sooner than Kepral’s syndrome? He belongs with his son, not indulging in the bad plot of a soap opera vid where it's just so romantic to seek absolution through a hero’s death. If he’d stop mooning over his own tortured soul for more than five minutes, maybe he’d realise the only forgiveness he should be seeking is from his son.”

Garrus couldn’t help but cock his good mandible in a smirk as he leaned against the console insouciantly. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I just know if I were him, I'd be on the Citadel this minute and never look back.”

She was silent for only a moment, then, gathering steam “Which brings me to another parent-of-the-year. How long have the asari been around? How long has it been since this ‘mutated gene’ was discovered? You're telling me the highest regarded race in the galaxy hasn't been able figure out some kind of gene therapy in the past few millennia? They say it's impossible to detect until maturity? I say bullshit. They’re forcing those girls into seclusion so their race isn't embarrassed into admitting that they're not perfect.  Because I think that's what the real issue is there. The salarians can create the goddamn genophage to eventually wipe out the krogan forever, but no one can figure out how to help a group that makes up less than one percent of the asari population and the only solution is death or lifetime imprisonment? Because keeping those poor souls locked up for crimes they've never committed is as sick as a mother who kills her own daughter.”

He was taken aback by her rancour and though he suspected it ran deeper than the injustices done to others that he knew she took to heart, he pressed on, “Even if that kid was a murderer?”

That gaze was fixed on him again, “Could you kill your own child? Even if?”

An image shot through his mind: Shepard, on a beach like Virmire, her face painted pink and red by the sun and crinkled in laughter. Her hair, long and free, glinting copper and gold, whipping around as she calls his name over her shoulder.  Being tugged along the surf and sand by tiny hands—six fingers, ten fingers, it doesn't matter. It took his breath away.

He straightened up and turned his head away, buying time with the appearance of self-inquiry as he tried to regulate his hammering heart and traitorous lungs.  There was no time to figure out where the hell that came from. Shepard frowned in concern and made an attempt to touch his arm. “I'm sorry if—"

He looked up, startled, when her hand met his armour, but didn't back away. “Uh, no need to be sorry, Shepard,” he coughed weakly, as though something other than emotions were thickening his voice.

But she didn't move her hand. Instead, she squeezed his arm as best she could through layers of ablative coating and nanocrystals. It was impossible to feel the pressure or the slight coolness of her hand, but he did. “I trust Joker and Tali and Dr. Chakwas with my life, but if you weren't here… I couldn't do this without you, Garrus.”

He replied lightly and automatically, as if reading off a script, “Sure you could. Just not as stylishly.” Even flared his mandibles in a grin.

But she didn't smile back. Instead, she let her hand fall as she rose purposely, her words intent but her voice soft, “No. I really couldn't.”

She was on her feet now, close enough to breathe in. Her face turned up to his like it held all the answers of the ages. He had so many questions, but couldn't find his voice to ask them.

She reached up, slowly but deliberately, tentative fingers cupping the bandaged side of his face. His own hands flexed uncertainly, itching with desire to grip her waist, tangle in those bewitching strands of hair, sketch a path over the twin bows of her clavicles. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned into her hand with a sigh.

But it was gone a moment later.  And when he opened his eyes, she had a small, wistful smile on her face. “Shepard…” He didn't know what to do, how to tell her how much he cared, how many doubts he had.

She turned to gather the parts of her rifle, “I'm very sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention.”

Too late, he reached out to protest, but she seemed very far away. “You didn't.”

Now she was reading off a script. “I should go.”

“Shepard, wait.”

She turned, hopeful. If Shepard had a definitive fault, it was that she was too damned hopeful.

“Let me see what I can do with that,” he finished lamely, gesturing to her rifle with his outstretched hand.

She began to shake her head. “Garrus—"

“Please.”

She watched him for a moment, so closely that he didn’t dare to move a muscle. Then, with studied nonchalance, she agreed. “Sure. Okay.”

“Good.” His hand was still outstretched, but she hadn’t handed the scope of the rifle over yet. He dropped it, suddenly overly aware of his limbs, like a fledgling, years away from bootcamp.

She too seemed unsure of what to do with herself, tapping the scope against her thigh with absolutely no rhythm at all. “Great.”

The air had been heavy with nervous tension, but Shepard’s inability to keep a beat broke it for him.  He twitched his mandibles out and offered, “Fabulous?”

That made her laugh in spite of herself and she handed the scope over. “We’re okay?”

He nodded emphatically, feeling the warmth of the mod from her hands now in his gloved palm. “Definitely.”

The door cycled opened and her attitude became more professional, though she did have a hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth. “Good night, Garrus.”

“Night, Shepard.”

He slumped down against his console the moment the door cycled closed behind her, as though all his energy had been used in maintaining levity. His heart raced and his lungs burned from the breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. All he could think to say aloud, to his tidy numbers and neatly kept cot, was addressed to the mess of Shepard’s broken-down rifle and her loose scope in his hand: “Crap.”


	16. Putting the Damage On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus takes a long walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer).

**The Citadel, 2185**

 

Nothing about it felt right from the start. First, Shepard brought Krios along. _Krios_ , a talented guy, sure, but it threw the team off. Who needed three snipers for collecting a bit of information and a lot of righteous vengeance. Not to mention that he knew for a fact Shepard didn’t trust him. He was a deadbeat dad and compared her to a goddess, and those were two sins she couldn't forgive. But when he drew her aside after they docked to question her decision, he heard his subharmonics sharp with irritation.

“Are you sure? Wouldn't Tali be a better fit?” It felt like the usual alpha team, Shepard, Tali, and himself, were the golden ratio of warfare. They took Saren and Sovereign down together. They were in perfect sync.

But Shepard stood firm in her decision. “You’re questioning why I'm bringing an assassin to an assassination?  That is what this is, isn't it?”

“Dammit, Shepard, this isn't a game!”

“No,” she cut in coolly, “It isn't. You asked for my help.”

That comment itched under his plates throughout the day. It wormed its way into his brain like a bad song and writhed in his gut like a nest of vipers.

“ _You asked for my help.”_

The look she gave him when she pulled him off Harkin—a nauseating mixture of concern, compassion, and condemnation-- made those asps of unease disperse throughout his body. His very blood was squirming and when she placed a restraining hand to still his gun, he shook it off with force, as though he were flinging all those threshing creatures out of his system.

It only made things worse. And though he heard himself snap at her again and again as they made their way to the Orbital Lounge, he couldn't stop himself. It was as though he needed her to believe that this was justice, this was righteous. This was fair and virtuous and good. But the more he insisted, the more she _looked_ at him like that, and it frayed his nerves until he wanted to shake her. To knock his beliefs into her. To make her understand.

Krios’ silence screamed judgement through the comms.

_“You asked for my help.”_

He breathed those words in and out as he set up, agitation and anger curdling deep in his gut. Wasn't he allowed, just once, to ask for it? Didn't she ask him enough?

But when he lined up his shot, all he saw was her. Shepard, imploring the son-of-a-bitch to listen to her. Shepard, matching that traitorous bastard’s skulking step. Shepard, pleading for the vermin’s life.

And when had he ever been able to say no to her?

As he broke down his armament, he thought that he still could have taken the shot.  It would have been close. It would have been risky. But he was one of the best damn sharpshooters in the galaxy. He could have taken that gamble, the way he had done with Fist’s thug in Dr. Michel’s clinic those two years ago. That reckless, lucky shot.

And that's what scared him the most.

Yet, _still_ , she trusted him. Acted like everything was okay. Like she hadn't stood in his sights, knowing how filled he was with self-righteous fury, and still trusted him with all her heart and soul.

He thought he was going to be sick.

Still, he acquiesced, agreed he saw reason, let her reassure him, even as he tried not to notice how very grey her eyes were in the dim, artificial light.  But as he followed her to the Rapid Transit hub, he knew he couldn't endure another moment of her concern or sympathy, or warmth.

“You know what? I think I need a drink after all.”

Shepard stopped short, considering him for a moment. He tried to look calmer, tried not to look away from the ambiguous colour of her eyes. She relented, her strangely flexible, wide mouth curved up in a faint smile. “Sure. We’re docked for a while. When you're ready to talk, come and find me.”

He watched her walk away, pretended not to notice Krios’ shadowy gait behind her, in his place. But her words kept ricocheting in his head. “ _You asked for my help.”_

He walked past bars and clubs and strip joints. Past restaurants and kiosks and cafes. He didn't want a drink; he already felt far too out of control. The thought of food was repellent at this point and he never had any interest in what an asari dancer could offer. He briefly entertained the idea of going to check out Armax Arsenal’s new Punishers, but that only brought back all the anger seething within.

Only… only, he wasn't angry. Not exactly. He was more confused and hurt by her actions.  Why did she agree to go along with his plan if she never had any intention of seeing it through? Why was she so willing to go off on fool’s errands for Cerberus and the Alliance and not for him? They didn't care about her, not really, only what she could do for them. But he did.

_“You asked for my help.”_

He stopped abruptly, as though the words were an algorithm that just locked in place before his eyes. The MSV Fedele. Dr. Saleon.

_“You can't predict how people will act, Garrus. But you can control how you'll respond. In the end that's what really matters.”_

Garrus did not come from a particularly religious family, but there was one story his mother would tell him and Sol when they were still small enough to fit on the same blanket on a cool night. It was about a brave _equite_ , who, during the time of Titans, sought out to find villains who murdered his fallen legion. Along the way, he asks everyone he meets, from a farmer to a mother and her brood, an _aquila_ , and even a _lup_ , if they have seen these evil-doers, but all say no. Finally, the _equite_ climbs the great Danori Spires, convinced that if he can see as far and wide as the Titans, he will find those responsible for taking his fallen comrades lives. But atop those silver spires, a great _strix_ lands next to the _equite_ and tells him the murderers cannot be found. Though his fellow warriors are gone, the spirit of the legion remains. As long as the _equite_ remains honest and true, their spirit will live forever. But if he kills those responsible, not only will the _equite_ lose his honour, but the legion’s spirit will be lost as well; for they only seek remembrance of their lives, not vengeance for their deaths.

“ _You asked for my help.”_

He had. And he got it.

He would still feel frustrated for a while, and irrationally at that, because she didn’t try harder to make him understand her intentions beforehand, though he knew deep down he was trying so hard not to listen. He knew this wouldn’t be solved with a joke on his part and a smirk on hers, but he got it.

He found himself in front of a little shop, too far off the main strip for mere tourists to find on their own. How it stayed in business, he never knew. But when Sol graduated basic and couldn't divulge where she was being deployed, he had sent her a plush keeper from this very store. Though it met the required fields of their gift exchanges, being silly, tacky, and useless, he knew Sol actually loved the stupid thing and, on impulse, he went into the shop.

The bored volus barely looked up, though the place was deserted. It had to be a front, Garrus surmised from the stocked shelves, high rent, and glaring lack of customers, but found he didn't care enough to worry about it because he realised he cared far more about something else. Someone else.

He started the message on his omni-tool while the volus rang him up.

 

G: Got a sec?

S: Always.

G: Zakera Café, 20 out?

S: I'll be there.

 

The clerk huffed loudly through the speakers in his suit, “Planning on,” a massive intake of air, “paying today?”

“What? Oh, yeah, here.”

Crap. Those damned things went up in price.

Half an hour later, a somewhat harried former C-Sec officer who became a former vigilante cursed the overcrowded Rapid Transit system on the Citadel while simultaneously thanking evolution for his height and eyesight.

Shepard was leaning against one of the supports between the plexiglass storefront of the café, sipping one of those over-sized and over-priced iced beverages through a straw. It was vaguely mildew-looking in colour and there was a great deal of white sediment at the bottom. She had apparently taken advantage of a little free time and bought herself something not emblazoned with the ugly orange Cerberus logo, if the still sharp creases running asymmetrically across her shirt and somewhat stiff pants were any indication. It didn’t fit her in that effortless way her old civvies had; that soft leather jacket and slim heeled boots, and yet...

No one ever looked more beautiful.

Her eyes lit up, when he finally made his way through the crowd, but her smile was more tentative. The thought struck him that they were like her own set of subharmonics, announcing her true emotions no matter how she studied her face. She pushed off the support and straightened up as he approached the café.  “Hey.”

“Hey. Sorry I'm late.” He just really hoped she thought he was breathless because of the trip.

“Don't worry about it. Traffic’s a nightmare this time of day.”

“Ah, uh, I saw this and thought of you.” She would probably think it was ridiculous, but he held out the plush keeper all the same. “I guess you could call it a peace offering.”

Shepard’s mouth fell open before she started to laugh. “Crap, Garrus, that is adorable.” She glanced around quickly before spotting a recycling unit. With language perfected on the battlefield, she tilted her head and they walked the small distance through the enormous crowd to it. Once her hands were free, they stood facing each other, and she somewhat bashfully accepted the fuzzy offering. “You didn't have to do that. Thank you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, damned if he knew what to say. Probably should have thought about that before he asked her here, but change is slow and if that was his one reckless action for the day, the universe would surely understand. Still unsure of what to do with his hands, he looked at them for guidance. “Uh, well, after everything today. I guess I just wanted to say that I get what you did. Why you did it.”

Her smile changed into something less humorous and more tender. She looked down at the toy in her hands as she said softly, “It's okay if you're angry with me. It's okay if you hate me. But I'd rather there was a galaxy with you in it, even if you never spoke to me again, than one without you at all.”

He took a step to close the narrow space between them.  It was noisy and crowded and not exactly an opportune space to explain how very much he did not hate her, at all, but he didn't care. “Shepard—"

She slammed into his battered chest plate, a faint whiff of ozone in the recycled air as a trio of giggling asari maidens pushed past, three abreast. And while normally purposely jostling Commander Shepard with a biotic-charged push would earn her wrath, she didn't seem to care much because his arms were around her— perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of desire, or possibly both— and she didn’t do a thing to remove them. Her hands and the toy were trapped between them, but neither made an effort to move. Time seemed to slow as he looked down into her upturned face, her eyes wide and her mouth parted in a countenance he had seen before. Oh. _Oh._ She wasn't scared then. She wanted him.

Not for the first time, he wondered what the hollow of her throat would taste like and what kind of sound she would make when he did it.  He decided he was going to find out. But when he opened his mouth to speak, time resumed normal operations.

“Sorry!” One of the maidens sang out in a false note. She didn't bother to lower her voice as she confided in her friends.  “Ugh, I swear to the Goddess, those creatures think they own the Citadel now that they have a Council seat.”

Another chimed in eagerly. “I know, right? And, ew, did you see that one? If she insists on being that… transparent, couldn't she at least make her crest match? Why do they all insist on so many colours? Monochrome or go home!”

“Caro!” Admonished the third in scandalous glee before sighing enviously. “You _are_ a lovely shade of sapphire.”

“I know,” the first maiden preened smugly before declaring to all within earshot, “It must be why she's with that turian. Probably couldn’t get one of her own kind to look at her.”

The second maiden sniffed disdainfully. “Did you _see_ his face? Who told him krogan was in this season? It's _so_ two millennia ago!”

The three broke out into giggles as they sashayed along. “Mera, you're so bad!”

“Garrus,” Shepard began, her face drawn in concern. “Don't—" But he already let her go. Over her head, she knew he was seeing his reflection in the plexiglass panes of the café.

With a sigh, she took a step back, stuffing as much of the plush Keeper into the small pocket of her jeans. Without a word, they started toward the docking bay in silence.

She rubbed her wrist, maybe because it hurt, or perhaps because of the way that the purple veins stood out as garishly as the lights in the ward they passed under.


	17. Tuchanka is for Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus take in the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her wonderful beta-reading work!
> 
> The amazing artwork below is by [Beth Ad Astra! Go see her work on tumblr!](https://bethadastra-art.tumblr.com/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/66273628@N07/41554907675/in/dateposted-public/)

**Tuchanka, 2185**

 

Garrus wanted to kill Wrex.

He who purported to have paternal affection for Shepard, who showed outright malice toward those who maligned her, had just casually left off mentioning that an Urdnot rite of passage involved a thresher maw.

He wondered if Massani’s krogan scalping method was as slow and excruciating as it sounded. He fervently hoped so.  The only thing that stopped him from finding out was the fact that Shepard would end up having to clean up the mess.

If he thought about it, Shepard did amazing things for his self-control.

She seemed fine; if anything, she was energetic and a touch foolhardier than anyone would credit with the normally level-headed Shepard.

And someone had been head-butted this time.

Garrus hung back as she was jostled and ribbed by Wrex and Grunt in turns, only occasionally chiming in when the former turned to reminiscing of his times aboard the _SR1_. But when talk turned back to celebrating, and namely devouring and defanging the downed maw for meat and trophies, Shepard’s pale face grew wanner still until she managed to slip away.

Turians were good at stalking, if stereotypes were anything to go by, but Garrus was absolutely terrible at stealth.

He watched her go, wanting to follow but unsure if he was wanted in return. He looked back to find Wrex’s red stare fixed on him. For once, it wasn’t jeering. “Grown into your quad, I see.”

Garrus was still irritated, but it did feel good to get a warm welcome for once, thresher maws or not. “Good to see you, too, Wrex.”

“Go on and make sure she hasn’t wandered out beyond the Shroud. She thinks she’s allergic to that helmet of hers.”

“Aw, Wrex, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Piss off, kid.”

He sauntered out of the compound, feeling oddly jaunty. As though he had just received a blessing he didn’t know he sought.

Shepard hadn’t gone that far, though she was without her helmet, as Wrex predicted. He was about to call out to her, but then he truly saw her.

She was turned away, framed in a corona of spectacular colours and light given off by a patch of nuclear aurora in the night sky above them. She briefly glanced toward him as he approached, a look of awe awash her face. “Isn't it beautiful?”

Soft greens and pale pinks brushed her pale visage. He swallowed against the rising want in his blood, but closed the distance between them, standing at her shoulder. He watched the tinted lights cavort across her face before he spoke, never taking his eyes off her. “Yeah. It is.”

For the first time in his memory, her gaze faltered under his scrutiny. Heavy lashes made sooty shadows of the soft colours that played across the sharp panes of her cheeks.

He watched his gloved hand reach out and brush the hues with his forefingers, stroking the shadow with his thumb.

She lifted her eyes to his, offering him her face in full. Slowly, deliberately, he slid his hand down to her neck, then swept it up, tangling her hair in his glove as he cradled the base of her head. He had spent so long in armour that he had forgotten that he couldn’t feel the silky strands between his fingers or the give of her flesh under his hand at her waist.

Her face tilted up to meet his. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers just as she moved in to push her mouth against his.

It could have turned into that feared and anticipated moment of interspecies awkwardness. He could have hesitated. She could have pulled away. They both could have apologised.

He closed his eyes and nudged his mouth against hers.

It felt as natural as gripping her arm to wrench them into cover.

He hadn’t expected the soft, damp pressure of her lips to feel as good as it did. When her mouth opened against his and her short, broad tongue made its first foray between his mouth plates, every nerve in his body electrified. He couldn’t pull her close enough; he had to possess her.

Their armour made whining protests as she gripped him by the prominent collar of his suit, drawing him closer still. It screeched displeasure when one hand tightened in her hair and the other dug into her waist, crushing her against him. It shrieked in alarm when her hips jerked against him and his leg shoved between hers.

Suddenly, he didn’t care about Wrex or thresher maws or radioactive fallout. He wanted to push her against a pillar and strip her bare; he wanted to press her onto the dusty soil and push into her.  Consequence be damned; who cared or saw or heard. Let them watch and they could see who had the quad.

Then, his arousal threatened against his tightly suited plates and Garrus realised he did have her against a crumbling pillar and she was kissing and licking and sucking and nibbling on his ravaged mandible as though to purge the pain and memories of a venomous wound.

“Shep—Shepard—” His hand left her hair, taking several strands with it that were caught in the joints of his glove. She didn’t even wince. Her mouth was parted, glossy, swollen and red; a picture of wanton desire. He snatched his hand from her waist and deliberately focussed just to the left, on the depilated pillar behind her. “We should probably…”

Her chest was heaving as though she had just run from the grounds of the Rite, but her tone was surprisingly light. “Yeah.”

He realised they were still sharing the same space and took a step backward, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Wrex might not approve.”

She huffed an abrupt, but giddy laugh that left her more breathless and crinkly eyed. He joined in with a weak chuckle, but more so from the shared nervous tension crackling through the air between them.

It died away and he found himself talking to fill the charged silence. “I mean, I don’t want to. You know. Stop.  Probably should have led with that. We’ll find a time.”

She nodded, abruptly brushing past him to snatch up her forsaken helmet, dropped and forgotten in that brief, blissful moment. “Right.” She sounded suddenly flat and resigned, as though she received dubious orders.

He turned just as she bent, and swallowed against the returning desire in his blood. “Soon.”

She straightened, but took her time turning back to face him. Her tone and reply were the same. “Right.”

With a silent curse, he realised he had been playing this far too cautiously; she didn’t think he was being careful. She thought he didn’t want her.

It took one long stride to reach her. He pulled her to him and kissed her, hard, all tongue and scraping teeth. He bore her weight as she sank into the kiss and his arms and her helmet landed in the dust once more.

Gently, and with a supreme effort surely worthy of a Palladium Star, he ended the kiss. With his forehead against hers, he looked into her eyes and promised, “Really, really, really soon.”


	18. Angel of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard get a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everlasting thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work and encouragement. 
> 
> This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Viewer discretion is advised.

**The Citadel, 2185**

If someone held a gun to Shepard’s head and demanded to know how she ended up in the ambassador suite of a somewhat dilapidated hotel in an out-of-favour block of the Zakera ward, well, it would be their brains splattered against the wall. But if that gun was held to a certain turian who was asleep next to her, she would still be hard-pressed but it would go something like this:

Bailey, who reminded Shepard of those gruff-but-kind NYPD officers who looked the other way when she jumped a turnstile or conveniently forgot to call OCFS when they ran her DNA during canvassing, had similarly agreed to let Kolyat off pretty much scot-free. Community service for attempted murder was still a bit too lenient in her opinion, but she was also not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth. So Shepard, more for Kolyat and her younger self, declared an impromptu shore-leave so Krios could spend some time with him.

Which left Shepard and Garrus alone together, outside of rounds, for the first time since the trip to Tuchanka. Perhaps the most surreal ten days of her life, which was saying something when one has visions of mass destruction burned into one’s brain from a warning beacon left by an eradicated race and is currently being hunted by the sapient machines who exterminated them. Those same machines who sent minions to kill her, succeeded, and then one was resurrected by the same organisation that murdered every other member of her unit several years ago.

However, none of that really prepared her for the dizzying events that had transpired on the Citadel and then Tuchanka in the past month. She risked the most important relationship in her life when she prevented her best friend—and all-consuming object of affection because even she could not delude herself into believing she was not in love with Garrus Vakarian—from committing murder in hopes of saving his soul. And though, by some miracle in which the universe smiled upon her for a change, the very act she was sure would end their friendship actually transformed it into something more. (There was a plush Keeper under her pillow, though she would run headlong into a Praetorian’s particle beam before she’d ever admit to that.) They had, in fact, almost… well, to be honest, Shepard wasn't quite sure what almost happened. Though they indeed kissed on Tuchanka some days later—and what a kiss!–she was not sure what would have happened on that fateful day, a month ago on the Citadel. Every vid that featured humans and turians doing something other than killing each other or going on unbelievable and/or hilarious capers together, had the same plot: Contact War, interrogation, sex. And it was so unrealistic! What use would it be for a military officer to interrogate an enemy combatant for days only to fuck them without ever getting any relevant information? The few books out there were more detailed, but generally with the same boring and unbelievable plot. And both always glossed over any chaste foreplay and went straight to the action.

Not that she spent that much time researching it. She just noticed a pattern.

But, in the end, they both walked away with egos bruised by a vicious clique of asari maidens. Truly, Shepard thought that if it were possible to condense the cruelty of teenaged human girls and asari maidens into a weapon of mass destruction, the Reapers would be annihilated.

Things only got murkier after that. When she finished up rounds the next day—because Shepard always spoke to Garrus last, like saving a piece of chocolate for after dinner—he launched into a cultural lesson about how the turians dealt with the stress of high risk missions, which had reminded her of the adorably earnest conversations they had during the hunt for Saren. And then blind-sided her by sharing a conquest story of sparring and sex. She could only guess, and fervently hope, he was making a pass at her. A terribly awkward and peculiar one, but still not as cringeworthy as one memorable corporal on Arcturus Station had thrown her way: “Baby, are you a biotic? Cuz you're making my balls glow blue.”

So, for the second time in two days, she threw caution to the wind and propositioned him.

And though he was once more adorably awkward, the challenge was accepted.

Only, as Shepard left her very nervous but ‘not uncomfortable’ turian swain, three things occurred to her: he gave the impression that he saw this as a very casual dalliance, his desire not to ‘disrupt the crew’ could be utter mortification on his part, and, oh! _Bettors._ Not betters! She had wondered why superior officers would be unhappy with a tie. Obviously people losing money would care much more.

It was a very visually distracting story, after all.

Then, on Tuchanka, underneath that glorious sky, he had taken her into his arms, and there were no distractions or interruptions to stop her from kissing him. In the end, it was Garrus, for once, who showed more common sense, and ended the delicious stolen moment before it turned into something more.

So now Shepard was nervous because she didn't want casual, not with him, and though she was hardly free and easy with her personal life, she could not care less about Cerberus’ sensibilities and their opinions on cross-species relations. Though Garrus might have had the right idea, because the following morning, Mordin proceeded to terrify her with ‘chafing’ and ‘anaphylactic shock’ and, most disturbingly, ‘do not ingest.’ Luckily, Dr. Chakwas intercepted the shell-shocked Shepard, eased her worries, and clued her in on some nuances the cliched vids left out. Dr. Chakwas not only had some fun when she was stationed on Shanxi after the war, but her reassurance and advice also earned her a case of Serrice ice brandy. Cerberus could have footed the bill, but Shepard dug deep into her pocket for that.

And then Bailey sent her word that a CI was willing to grass on Kolyat, and the three of them—Shepard, Krios, and Garrus were mingling with the criminal element on the Citadel for the second time in a month.

It was a cakewalk for the most part, and though Shepard privately thought no better of Thane’s paternal nature, she urged him to take some time with his son and declared a seventy-two hour shore-leave to a mostly grateful crew. Lawson, of course, questioned the decision and Shepard, not for the first time, considered a trip to the Presidium to find her comm a new home in the lake.

Instead, Garrus, who hadn't left her side despite three bars in spitting distance, said, “That was a nice thing to do.”

Shepard gave him a self-conscious smile. “Well, you know, the kid’s still young. No need to throw the baby out with the bath water because of his father.”

“Is that another charming human phrase?”

She shook her head with a smile and started to walk in the general direction of the _Normandy’s_ docking bay. “Yeah. Never mind. How’re things with your dad?”

Garrus followed suit. “Uh, better. Good, actually. Sol’s not too happy with me, though.”

Shepard shot him a playful smirk, “Tacky gift was too tacky?”

He didn't laugh, however. “No. My mom’s sick.”

Shepard stopped short. “Crap. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

That earned her a mirthless chuckle. “I think ‘cure diseases’ is on the short list of miracles you _can't_ perform.”

She lifted her hands helplessly. “Well, if it were big enough to shoot…”

“I wish it was. Then I'd know how to help.”

The dejected slump of his cowl was enough to make her squeeze his arm. “I really am sorry. You’ll let me know if I can do something? Even if you want to talk. My door’s always open.”

Turian facial expressions tended to err on inscrutable to humans, so when he appraised her silently for a moment, she thought she’d gladly give the contents of her very recently depleted credit account to know what he was thinking. But when he finally spoke, it was in a light tone once more. “An unreasonably expensive and pretentious Invictrix microbrew might help.”

So she grinned, even though she was still worried. “That I can do.”

He gave her a knowing look. “But you want to get out of your armour and feed your fish first.”

She swatted his arm. “Dammit, Vakarian, at least give me the pretence of mystery.”

Garrus couldn’t possibly look more pleased with himself as he suggested, “So, an hour?”

It was a good look on him, though she tried not to show it with her easy reply, “Sure. Ping me the place.”

Fifty-seven minutes later, she slid onto the barstool next to a scarred turian with blue markings and some unfortunately coloured civvies. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

He laughed at her line, signalling the bartender. “Must’ve been a newsvid.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, tilting her head. “No, I'm pretty sure it was Bad Ass Monthly.”

Though Garrus was amused, the gruff turian bartender was not. He grunted impatiently, “What’ll it be?”

Shepard, never one to take an unwarranted attitude problem lightly, ordered in her sweetest voice, “Virgin strawberry daiquiri, dairy-free.”

The bartender gave her a flat look.

She grinned back in return. “Ice water is fine.”

Though Garrus’ mandibles twitched, as he knew she was giving the bartender a hard time, he still looked guilty. He waited until the bartender slid the glass of water over and disappeared before he said, “I forgot you like those fruity, frozen drinks. We can go someplace else if—"

He sounded so apologetic that she touched his wrist soothingly. “No, it's fine.”

He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “Your fringe—hair—looks different.”

“Oh.” Shepard had hair that waved and curled depending on its mood and the climate. It was easier to keep out of her eyes when she straightened it, but she preferred it in a controlled, waved state. She had spent most of her fifty-seven minutes on her hair alone, so she self-consciously tucked a curl behind her ear. “I didn't have time to dry it straight.”

“I don't know what that means, but it looks nice.”

He had that unreadable expression again, so she decided to hedge her bets on a memory she hoped he shared and employ some shameless flirting. She leaned forward, close enough for her hair to brush his mandible. “Compliments will get you _everywhere_.”

And that's where things got a little hazy because she didn’t remember him grabbing her arm or tugging her into the alcove behind the weapons check. (It's a turian bar. Of course there's a weapons check.) But she was very aware of the fact that he had her pinned against a dark wall, and turian tongues are _genius._ Or maybe just his. She really was in no position to debate the point. She was, however, in a great position to test out all that research on turian anatomy she did on the extranet. You know, for science.

Apparently, she was better at biology in the field than in the classroom, because although one of them was about to steal third, she really didn’t want to slide home in the back of a bar. At least, not the first time with him.

“We should really go,” she protested half-heartedly. Her hands had gone from under his fringe to under his tunic at an alarming rate and it took a great deal of effort to still them.

“We should,” he agreed, nipping at the sharp corner of her jaw and then soothing it with his tongue.

“Garrus,” It was meant to be a reprimand, but it came out as a sigh.

She tilted her head against the wall he backed her into and he let his forehead drop against hers. For several moments they exchanged air.

“Your place or mine?” he quipped.

She grimaced in displeasure, not at the line but the suggestion. “We’ll get way _laid_ ,” emphasising the last syllable to prove she can make terrible puns, too.

He groaned, not at the pun or the truth in that statement, but for the act described in her italics. “You and your open-door policy.”

She shifted against his restraining hips, pressing herself against his leg. “Me and my open-door policy.”

She smirked as he swallowed visibly and said, “I know a place.”

“You know a place,” she repeated sceptically.

“It's classy,” he retorted in defence.

“Why, do they charge every third hour instead of the one?”

He moved his head back and started to release her, “Or I could catch up on my cal—"

She dug her fingers into the soft hide of his waist and he cut himself off to advance on her once more. As he leaned in to lick the smug tilt of her lips, she turned her face, pressing her mouth against his throat, “Don't you dare.”

His breath was hot when he laughed against her ear, but the radiating rumble made her shiver. She retaliated with a sharp nip, “It better be nearby.”

It was, in fact, nearly forty-five minutes on a public Rapid Transit vehicle that was running on local service despite being marked as express. They managed to find seats next to each other, each trying their best to look poised and studied, but every time their eyes met, they'd both quickly look away with sheepish grins.

A heavily pregnant asari matron and an elderly salarian were among the fresh squeeze of passengers alighting the car. Shepard and Garrus both rose, independently of thought, to give up their seats. Another set of smiles and shrugs were exchanged, but as the vehicle lurched into motion, Garrus took hold of the handrail and Shepard did not. Instead, she leaned against the nearest stanchion, shifting her weight for balance.

Garrus used his superior height to lean across the distance without losing his grip. “Show-off.”

Shepard shivered visibly as his breath rushed against her ear and neck. She turned her face to his, close enough only to sense his mandibles flared in a smirk rather than see it. She grabbed the rail behind her to stand on tip-toe, her mouth almost touching his.  “Takes one to know one.”

The elderly salarian coughed pointedly and it was Shepard’s turn to smirk as Garrus’ breath caught with a clicking noise. The matron shook her head with a long-suffering sigh as the car came to another abrupt halt, gravity jerking the couple away from each other once more.

A volus family claimed the space between the human and turian, oblivious or uncaring of their amorous displays. Garrus shot her an exasperated look, but Shepard was too busy making faces at the tiny, suited pup who huffed giggles back at her. The mother sniffed at her suspiciously, hoisting her child up on her shoulder and turning them both away.

Shepard looked over them to Garrus, already shrugging with self-deprecation, but he wasn't laughing. His mandibles were pulled close, but not tight, fluttering slightly. She had thought it was the face he made when a snarky comment or joke was thought better of or dismissed, but she had seen it so much more recently—the main battery when they discussed trust, a month ago when the asari maidens pushed her into him, just an hour ago when she sat next to him at the bar—that she was again at a loss of what it signified.

She didn't know how long they remained like that, eyes locked and oblivious to the other passengers, but when their stop was finally announced, they both blinked in startlement.

As they disembarked, Garrus shouldered his way next to her. “Well, that was certainly as effective as a cold shower.”

She stretched her hand out to take his, but hesitated at the last moment. He had said he wanted to keep things quiet, though the bar and Rapid Transit trip belied that sentiment. Still, she didn't want to push. “Or hanar porn.”

He took her hand, casually and easily, like they did this every day. “Something you're not telling me?”

She jammed her shoulder against his cowl, refusing to give up his hand. “No! I meant I imagine it would be a mood killer.”

His mouth opened, as though he discovered something new. “So you just _imagine_ hanar porn.”

Though she had absolutely no intention of it, she declared, “You know, I should go—” 

She started to turn, but he tugged on her hand, nearly spinning her. “Too late, we’re here.”

Hardly any building on the Citadel looked impressive on the outside, but the inside of the hotel was lovely to Shepard’s eye, which was so used to seeing burnt out prefabs and spartan, basic living spaces. The lobby was brushed gold and white, with honey coloured wood accents.

Behind a desk of the same wood, an elcor raised his head. “With genuine enthusiasm: Detective Vakarian. It is good to see you again.”

Garrus, who appeared to have been overcome with the same anxiety as Shepard once crossing the threshold, resumed some confidence at this greeting. “Good seeing you too, Eilukka,” he replied as he approached the desk.

Shepard leaned against the desk and lifted her brows suggestively. “Come here often, Detective Vakarian?”

Garrus opened his mouth to protest, but the elcor spoke first. “Without guile: Detective Vakarian solved a murder that occurred here.”

Shepard straightened up immediately, looking between the expressionless elcor and the sheepish Vakarian. “Wait. A murder?”

Garrus made a placating gesture. “Well, murder-suicide. A turian musician—you remember that band Widows and Orphans? The lead singer killed his asari girlfriend and himself. They were hopped up on red sand cut with cocaine.”

Inexplicably, Shepard had an overwhelming desire to dissolve into laughter. Of course Garrus would ‘know a place’ and that place would be a former crime scene. She bit her lip as the elcor cut in. “Defensively: This is a safe and respected hotel. We cannot control the actions of patrons abusing substances.”

She was trying so hard not to laugh that she started to shake with mirth. Garrus rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “So, uh, you still want to…?”

Shepard tried not to sound too eager, swallowing another giddy laugh. “Definitely.”

And she failed, to judge by the elcor’s reply. “Magnanimously: Please accept the ambassador’s suite with compliments. Cheerfully: Enjoy your coital activities.”

She was still laughing and he was still grinning anxiously by the time they exited the elevator. But when the key code was accepted after two attempts, as he was suddenly very nervous once more, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly.

The suite was spacious, decorated in the fashion of ten years prior, but in perfect repair and very clean. 

Garrus was a wreck and she thought it was adorable. “So, uh, we could order some food.” He picked up the room service and take-out menus thoughtfully left on a large bureau in the sleeping area, and flipped through an overwhelming assortment of dextro and levo cuisines before dropping them back down. There was a huge vid screen above the bureau, and he alighted on this next.  “Maybe watch some of that hanar porn you mentioned…”

Shepard, smiling more than smirking, advanced upon him slowly. He turned to face her, clutching the vid screen remote as though it might save his life. “I was thinking,” she took the remote from his hands and replaced it with her waist. “Of something else.”

His talons flexed nervously against her, but when she situated herself in his embrace, a bit of self-assurance dropped his subvocals.  “Oh, yeah? What did you have in mind?”

She wrapped her arms around his cowl, but turned her head to consider the wall behind them. When she looked back to him, the fire had returned to his eyes. Still, she made sure her voice was low as she let her hands deliberately slide up his cowl and under his fringe. “Picking up where we left off.”

And just like that, he had her captured between the warm white walls and his hot, hard body. He was tugging very insistently at her shirt, having pulled it off one shoulder to lave the skin there, but was so far unsuccessful at removing it altogether. She, for all intents and purposes, was giving him a hickey but making very little inroads with his own tunic.

They were both unfamiliar with each other’s apparel and no amount of tugging would change that. Shepard finally took initiative, pulling back with one last lingering nip before unceremoniously yanking off her shirt. Garrus swiftly followed suit, working on what appeared to be a series of complicated clasps on his tunic that soon gave way, joining her shirt on the floor.

Shimmying out of her jeans was easy enough, but there was just no alluring way to remove combat boots. She half bent to pull them off, vowing to do some serious retail therapy when they returned from the Omega-4 Relay. When she straightened up, clad only in her underwear, Garrus was staring at her, talons still on the clasp of his loosened trousers.

With someone else, she might have worried about the nick under her arm from a rushed shower or that her underwear was too utilitarian, but all she could think about was how badly she wanted this and how much that want frightened her. Not even sex, though that was certainly a much-anticipated bonus, but him, all of him, with her. Together. A life intertwined, like an oak and birch who don't necessarily need each other to survive, but have grown so close that their branches enlace.

Still, this wasn't the time to panic. She started this with all the bravado of a seasoned seductress. She owed it to him to exude sensual confidence. 

She took a step forward and dropped her voice. “You know, you have me at a very unfair advantage.”

“I was just remembering something.” He traced a winding path from her hip, across her stomach to her rib cage, where his talons faltered. It echoed trajectory of chartreuse acid that, a lifetime ago, ate through armour and weave to lick a hungry trail into her flesh. It was fitting, she had thought upon seeing her smooth, vat-grown skin for the first time, that which Cerberus gave, they took away. She didn't miss the scars; every time she saw them, she also saw the fifty men and women who died. She thought she understood why Garrus seemed conflicted about his own.

Her hand went reflexively to his mandible. “When—?” She began, her voice tremulous from his touch. She took a deep breath to steady it, not unaware her expanding rib cage would deepen his loose embrace.

On cue, his hands moulded themselves to her. “Decom after Feros.”

Her eyes grew wide in memory and they both said, “Wrex,” at the same time before breaking out into laughter.

The Thorian and its creepers spewed what she repeatedly told herself was just compost over everything. The spores were clearly dangerous not only to themselves, but the entire crew. Shepard wilfully submitted to a rigorous decontamination as advised by Dr. Chakwas and ordered the ground team to do the same. Though she had little modesty left after years in service and the long and painful hospital stay after Akuze, she had been grateful for the disposable robes provided by healthcare services everywhere. Everywhere except Tuchanka, apparently, because Wrex proceeded to display his own personal example of the famed krogan quad for the entire process.

Now, Shepard took the opportunity of the mild distraction to slide her hand down his cowl to his bare carapace.  Her laughter turned into a coquettish smirk. “I didn't know where to look.”

Garrus’ own laughter choked off as her fingers found the softer skin between the expanding plates of his torso.  He moved closer still, forcing her to tilt her head up to his. “I did,” he said, his eyes as warm as his thumbs stroked down her ribs to her tapering waist.

She looked up through her lashes, hoping the effect was universal, despite the distinct lack of them on her counterpart. “Well,” she drawled, her fingers dragging southward at the pace of her words. “Then I think,” her left hand paused briefly at his waist, earning her a muffled, rumbling noise, before her right boldly delved into his loosened trousers. “It's my turn.”

He groaned as her hand cupped the hot, bulging plates, already parted and slick before she began to add even pressure. His talons left her to hastily shove down and jerkily step out of the suddenly offensive garment. Her left hand briefly explored the softer hide of his hip, keeping up the rhythm she built with her right until his plates shifted entirely. He braced the wall behind her as her hands gripped his newly freed erection, his breath harsh in her ear and hot on her neck as she worked from base to tip and back again. But when she pressed her thumb into the throbbing vein at the base, close to the gaping plates, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands over her head.  He managed to gasp roughly, “Where did you learn that?”

She didn’t look particularly surprised or upset. If anything, she looked at once smug and aroused, arching up into him without fighting his grip. “Research.”

He huffed, leaning his forehead against hers. “Don't believe everything you read on the extranet. We can't go more than one round at a time.” She started to speak, but he let go of her wrists so abruptly that she didn't even drop her arms as he cupped her damp mound through her underwear. She arched into his touch shamelessly and when his fingers stubbornly refused to move, she whimpered his name pleadingly.

His hands left her, and he took a step away from her to evade her grasping hands. “I want to see you.”  It came out as an order, not a request, and if her eyes hadn't grown wide and her breath caught between her parted lips, she would later think he would have immediately apologised. But Garrus was nothing if not a quick learner. His subvocals purred but his word was a command that she was meant to obey. “Now.”

She reached behind to unhook her bra, but, catching the way his eyes followed the shifting muscles and bones beneath her skin, she slowed her movements. Taking her time, she ran her hands from her back, up her sides, pausing to draw a line with her fingers across her clavicles before pushing the straps down her shoulders and off her arms.

She saw his mandibles flutter in that light, but restricted way. Before she could consume herself with worry that his nerves were getting the better of him or that he would flee at the sight of something so innately alien, she pushed her underwear down off her hips. Stepping out of them, her heart hammering so loudly that she wondered if he could hear it, she looked up at him, hopeful and defiant all at once.

His talons twitched, but he didn't move to touch her. She inhaled suddenly, unaware that she had been holding her breath at all, but the movement and sound broke the spell. She heard the awe in his voice though he tried to keep it so firm. “Show me.”

She knew what he was asking for, but she took his hand instead. Pressing it to her breast, she held his gaze as she guided his reluctant talons over the curving flesh and hard peak. He seemed so entranced by the differing textures that she almost wanted to laugh. But then he moved their hands to her hip and bent his head to taste her nipple.

She cried out softly, squeezing his hand into her hip, and he did it again. Unguided, his free talons began to mimic his earlier movements over her other breast. She arched into him, pulling his hand from her hip and guiding it to her sex. He looked up, pausing his ministrations, every still finger burning into her skin.

“It's okay,” she breathed, giving permission to the question in his eyes. Slowly, she glided the pads of his fingers over her warm, wet folds and brushed them against her swollen flesh. He repeated the pattern until her hand loosed from his and gripped his cowl instead. Emboldened, he began his own exploration, stroking her more firmly where she made sharper noises. He hesitated a moment at her entrance, then carefully slid a talon inside.

All the air left her, only to come back in a rush when she felt his long finger and thumb stroke her inside and out. She let her head fall back against the wall when he slipped his second finger in, scarcely able to do more than breathe. Then he curled them inside her and it took her three tries to say his name.

“What is it?” he purred against her neck, sounding very much like the proverbial cat with the cream, if such a cat had one vocal box, never mind two.

Shepard wasn't a screamer, so to speak. Nor did she generally state the obvious. But on the off chance he really had no clue how close she was, which was now as likely as the Council admitting they were wrong on galaxy-wide vid feed, she tried to tell him. “Garrus, please, I'm going to—"

Undeterred, he curled his fingers inside her once more.  “Isn't that the point?” emphasising his words by carefully pressing the tips of his teeth against her throbbing pulse.

It was more than his fingers or his searing mouth, but the idea that they all belong to him—Garrus— that did her in. She came undone, gasping his name. He braced them both against the wall as she recovered on trembling limbs, his neglected erection pressing into her thigh as she looped her arms around his cowl. She shifted against the slick length to give him some friction, pressing kisses against his mandible. “You _did_ do some research too, didn't you?”

He lifted her up by the back of her thighs as though she weighed nothing at all, taking a few long strides to the bed. “Maybe a little.”

She huffed a laugh as she landed on the bed, sitting up on her elbows while he stood between her legs. She quieted as she took in his form. She knew, on some level, that she should find him exotic and alien, in all senses of the word, but she didn't. He wasn't unfamiliar or strange or even turian, in her mind. He was safe and familiar. He was _Garrus_. Someone she had grown to admire for his inquisitive mind and prowess with both a rifle and a block of code. Someone she had grown to love for his quick, wry wit and unwavering integrity and loyalty. Those aeons-old jokes about ‘nice personality’ and ‘great sense of humour’ were adages that Shepard truly found much more attractive than the more popular ideals of human beauty. Though, in spite of her own inclination to be attracted to a personality rather than a body, she was captivated by the sinewy strength in his limbs and the way the silvery sheen of his tan plates glittered dully like moonlight on mica-rich pavement when shifting with movement. His powerful stride aroused her most base desires and his voice—well, there were times when her blood was up after a firefight, when his masterful display of skills was as fresh in her mind as the blood on her armour and he would stalk toward her with a ready quip about their losing foes followed by a rumbling laugh— it was all that she could do not to jump him amidst the smoking piles of husks and geth and mercs. 

He shifted his weight, mandibles twitching as though about to speak, and she realised she was staring and silent for far too long. Before he could grow more embarrassed and crack a joke, she lifted her knee against his leg, hooking her ankle above his spur to draw him closer. “You're beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything, but he had that expression once more and she thought she finally had a name for it, but one she would wait for him to voice. Instead, his breath clicked and he knelt between her thighs and urged her back into the bed.

They tumbled backwards but her breathless laugh quickly turned into a sharp sound. “Ow, wait, my hair.”

Garrus lifted his head, but didn’t move his solid weight from above her. “I thought it was dead cells. How does it hurt?”

She squirmed, freeing her trapped hair from the weight of their two bodies. “Well, when it's being pulled out of my scalp—"

He shot up, unsure of what to do with himself. “Oh, sorry, sorry.”

She reached out and drew him back down her to her. “No, it's okay. Come here.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, as though suddenly aware of their position—naked, in bed, about to have sex. Shepard could see the wheels turning in his head. She closed her eyes and pushed her mouth against his. Eagerly, he responded, delving into her mouth with his tongue as she pulled him down by the cowl.

Fervently, he licked and nipped a path down her jaw, impatient to test new territory once more. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she felt his needy groan echo in her ribs as he pressed his face into her breast. When her fingers found the soft skin underneath his fringe once more, he rested some of his weight on his hands as his body pushed hers flat against the bed. His tongue teased more assuredly, but abandoned her breast for the more familiar territory of her collarbone and neck as she pushed her hips insistently against his slick erection, faltering completely when she squeezed her thighs against his sensitive waist, her own wet need throbbing against his.

He leaned his forehead against hers as they both greedily sought the same air. Her eager hands slowed, and one slid down to stroke his scarred mandible.

Their eyes locked once more and he took her hand this time, snaking both between them before pressing it against his length. His mandibles twitched as she gripped him, and a deep rumble broke out as she stroked him, but their eyes never left each other. With a little nod, she loosened her legs from his waist, spreading herself wide as she guided him inside her.

She heard her own gasp, sharp with surprise and laden with wanton desire, but cut raw with pain, even above his resounding groan. Her hands gripped his cowl, fleeing their previous ministrations, and he froze, every inch of him as rigid as steel.

She grimaced apologetically, taking a deep breath to grit out, “Fuck Cerberus.”

He laughed breathlessly, and her iron grip relaxed as he remained otherwise still, though his arms shook under her hands from the effort. “I’d really prefer you, if you don't mind.”

She grinned up at him, running her hands up his cowl and then down to his waist. “I'd really prefer it if you fucked me, too.”

He went completely rigid once more, his voice as heavy and rock-solid as his cock twitching inside her.  “Say that again.”

The smile slipped off her face as she whispered, “Fuck me.”

He gave a measured thrust and she gasped once more, but dug her fingers into his waist before he could still. When he did it again, she arched into him with a soft cry. Still hesitant, his movements remained shallow until she drew her knees up and pushed her hips high, forcing him deeper into her wet, clenching heat and breathed into that soft spot under his mandible, “Please, Garrus, please.”

With a muffled sort of growl, he buried himself to the hilt. It burned in a way she knew she would feel for days and at her masochistic core, she knew she would enjoy the sting as a reminder.

Emboldened by her quiet urging and his raucous need, he moved against her without hesitation, building a rhythm that left her begging for more. When her legs tightened around his waist once more, he found an angle that took him deeper still. She stuttered his name and he gripped her faltering hips, pushing them up as he thrust down. Her head fell back to accommodate the altered position and though he was hitting just the right spot inside her and his sueded pubic plates were keeping up the most delicious kind of friction against her swollen flesh, it was the look in his eyes that suggested this wasn't just a fuck for him either that sent her over the edge.

He didn't give her time to recover, his thrusts becoming so rapid and short that he was almost never broke contact with her oversensitive flesh. She tried to match his thrusts again, but abruptly, he pulled her hips flush against his. With a burst of muscle control fuelled by desire, she rose up, twining her arms around his cowl and urging him forward until she sat in his lap, his hands leaving her hips to wrap themselves around her waist, their bodies cleaved together. When she found her voice again, it was an urgent plea. He answered with her name, his talons biting into her skin as he spilled inside her.

Breathless and spent, they remained like that for a few moments before their limbs protested the shoddy treatment of their joints. Loath to release one another, Shepard leaned back into the soft expanse of the bed, pulling him down with her. The little air Garrus had reclaimed left him in an amused gust. He managed to roll them over, so he didn't crush her with his weight and she gratefully curled herself against him.

He didn't speak, and she didn't dare to either, but his talons found their way into her hair, lightly scraping her scalp in a drowsy pattern.  With the false confidence that borne this night, she boldly tucked her head against his carapace and let out a contented sigh.

At some point soon after, they must have drifted off to sleep, but Shepard’s internal taskmaster woke her up abruptly with the notion to check on the _Normandy_ and its errant crew.

Quietly and carefully, albeit grudgingly, she disentangled herself from his warm embrace and slid off the bed. Padding to the bathroom, she snagged one of the complimentary robes hooked on the door (it really _was_ a nice hotel) and winced when the lights flared to life. Quickly pushing the door closed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror: skin rubbed ruddy, hair tangled, and a euphoric grin plastered on her face.

She sat on the edge of the tub, wincing again, and queued up an audio link with the _Normandy,_ purposely avoiding her reflection. The gods and fate and fortune all did not like to see anyone that happy for long.

“ _SSV Normandy_. Got Daddy Issues? We’ve got a spot for you.”

Shepard stifled a laugh, but kept her voice casual. “Hey Joker.”

“Hey Commander.”

A beat, then, “You're sitting there at the helm, aren't you?”

“Where else would I be?”

Shepard normally would have sighed but it was impossible for her to stop grinning. Her face actually hurt. She made an attempt to sound vaguely distracted and a little bored. “So, I got a little tied up here. I’ll probably need to get a room for tonight. Can you keep things on an even keel?”

There was a pause, followed by the crinkling sound of a wrapper. Around a bite of food, her pilot asked without incredulity, “Seriously? That's the best you can do?”

“I don't know what you mean,” was her haughty reply.

He chewed in her ear and swallowed. “Look, it's your business if you like ‘em tall, scarred, and spiky—"

“Jeff!” she hissed, standing up to move further away from the door.

“But don't _lie_ about it. I mean, I may need to bleach my brain after this little chat, but Commander?”

Shepard sighed, “Yes?”

“It's really nice to see you happy.”

Without warning, her eyes stung. “Thanks, Joker. That means a lot.”

She heard him reapply his mouth to the bar again. “One more thing. It's really important.”

She stiffened, as though the very hint of a problem forced her entire body into parade rest. “What is it?”

“Does he leave the visor on?”

There was a discordant shriek of static as she killed the comm link. She still couldn't stop grinning, though.

Quietly reversing her movements, she turned off the bright lights, eased the door open, and picked her way back to the bed, pausing only to slip out of the robe and fold it atop the bureau under the vid screen.

Sliding out of a bed undetected was easy, but climbing back into one was not. When she managed to get both legs in without so much as a grunt on his end, she thought she had succeeded.

“So much for not disrupting the crew,” he said without opening his eyes.

She froze but for the smile leaving her face. “I'm sorry—"

He opened his eyes and even in the dim light, she could see their warmth. “I'm not.” He reached out then and pulled her down against him. Her smile made a reappearance as she curled against him once more. She traced a lazy path in the gaps between his plates. His talons found their way back into her hair and she silently vowed not to cut it again—at least until they made it through the Omega-4 relay. But then she remembered something and the fear of it threatened her happiness with a vicious gnawing in her gut.

Her fingers stilled, and her palm hovered over his warm chest. “Garrus?”

“Yes?” He drew out the word, never stilling his talons’ gentle ministrations.

She spoke into his carapace, unwilling to let him see her trepidation. “You don't have to say anything, but… I don't want this to be a one-time thing.”

“Well, that's good to hear.” He sounded almost cavalier, but his talons had left her hair to trail down the back of her neck.

She craned her head up to look at him, lips curving up once more. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. Though, technically tonight was a two-time thing. For you, at least.” He lost his own battle to keep a straight face, mandibles flaring wide in a grin of his own.

She sat up to swat him, laughing anyway. “Smug bastard. Keeping score?”

He caught her hand, rubbing small circles with the pad of his thumb into her palm, cutting off her laughter. “You need to ask?” But instead of treating her to a smirk, he dropped her hand abruptly and sighed, as though slightly disappointed but mainly bored. “But, if that's the way you feel, I guess you don't want to try for three.”

She did smirk, however, rising up to climb over him.  “Oh no. I can definitely be persuaded.” His hands went to her waist as she planted a knee on either side of his hips, but she pressed her hands against his carapace before he could try to meet her. She dipped her head to kiss the plates below her palms and when he drew a sharp breath, she tasted the skin between the gaps of plating his expanding ribs had made. “Four. Five. Six,” she counted off as she trailed lower, her fingers following her mouth. She bent her head lower still, down to scrape her teeth against the chamois-soft skin of his stomach. “But I think it's time to even that score.”

He was gasping now, writhing beneath her hands and mouth.  “You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?” he panted.

She flicked him a glance from under her tangled hair and smirked when she saw the fervent heat in his eyes. “Probably.” Sitting up, she started to move down the bed. Her hands urged him back down when he tried to push himself up on his elbows. “Now just lie back and think of Palaven.”

“I don't know what that— _oh.”_


	19. Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, Garrus is a genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta work!
> 
> The events of this chapter take place directly after the previous one.

**The Citadel and _Normandy SR-2_ , 2185**

They never left the room.

It wasn’t all sex, though, to be honest, it was quite a lot. They spoke endlessly of nothing and anything, and everything in between. Garrus ordered in from a greasy Taetrux takeaway nearby that he always liked, while Shepard gleefully discovered that her mildewy iced drink could be delivered at all hours. She diligently ate the same bland white grains she always did on the ship, ordered from a sushi restaurant that was highly recommended on the Citeats omni-tool app. He wondered if she got to the point of being so hungry as a child that she no longer ever was, or if she simply saw food as a necessity and nothing more. He meant to ask, but she looked up at him up through her lashes as she sucked on her minty drink, hollowing out her cheeks, and perhaps he could be forgiven for losing his train of thought and pulling her down into the damp sheets.

On the second morning, there wasn’t even a pretence of getting up and showering, or talk of getting a bite to eat outside. She only left the bed to go the bathroom and check in with Joker, and he only put pants on to accept the duplicate food and beverage orders. He felt it was best to greet the bored tadpole. A turian ordering levo could have an asari inside, but a human, especially Commander Shepard, first human Spectre and lately dead, ordering dextro would raise more than a few curious questions. There was no reason to have Westerlund News outside the hotel.

Even then, the pants didn’t stay on very long.

She watched the way they fell low on his hips and looked, for once, ravenous. He didn’t mind eating cold _minutal._

At one point, Miranda buzzed Shepard’s omni-tool. She accepted it as a voice call and Garrus found new appreciation for Shepard’s tact.

She explained that, yes, with the Alliance, she often stayed ship-side during shore leave, but reminded Lawson that the _Normandy_ was not an Alliance vessel nor was anybody aboard an Alliance crew member. She then politely informed the XO that Garrus had wanted to meet up to eat, so she really should go. No, she wasn’t sure of the name of the place. Somewhere in one of the Lower Wards.

And, after all, he couldn’t have Shepard make a liar of herself.

But that had been last night cycle. Now, there were four hours left of shore leave and Shepard had just very, very regretfully conceded that it was time to clean up and head back.

As she showered, he stared unseeingly at the empty cartons of food and the tangle of sheets and wondered just what the hell he was going to do now.

He liked Shepard, obviously, of course. It had been a great sixty-eight hours. But how was all this supposed to translate aboard ship? A _Cerberus_ ship, where Shepard’s leadership was the tenacious but tentative cord tying everyone together.

It couldn’t. It would undermine her authority.

And he wasn’t ready for this.

He sat at the edge of the bed, taking into account the very precarious circumstances of his life. A few months ago, he thought he was dead. Now he had a rearranged face, a resurrected human in the shower, no job prospects assuming the very big assumption that he survived his current employment: the aptly named suicide mission.

He had gotten ten people under his leadership killed and one turned coat. How could he possibly embark on a real relationship with actual, adult consequences?

She had framed this entire encounter—or encounters—seventeen, if he was keeping count, which he was—as casual.  Of course, she intimated at something more, but all she had actually said was that she didn’t want this to be a one-time thing.

Well, neither did he. Just maybe an off-ship thing. A shore leave thing.

When she came out of the steamy bathroom, glowing from the gloriously hot water, he tried to ignore how closely she resembled the coyly smiling sunburnt Shepard on Vimire before that all went to hell. It was too bad an omen to think of and the ways to stop thinking of it were a dangerous temptation.

He busied himself with cleaning up the debris while she went to the mirrored bureau to dress.

He tried not to notice the way her bones and muscle shifted and slid under her skin as she dressed and admonished himself for finding the act of dressing, and not undressing, a turn on at all. He focussed on the congealed  _minutal._  “So, uh, I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking that, uh, this should maybe be a shore leave thing.”

“A shore leave thing.” Shepard had a habit of repeating things. Depending on the tone, it could be flirtatious, sarcastic, or downright terrifying.

Garrus swallowed hard, not daring to look at her. “Yeah, you know, keep it off-ship…”

“Off-ship.” The weight of a thousand disappointments were heaped upon his head.

“I mean, not that I have a problem with it being, uh, on _a_ ship, but, you know, Cerberus, and you’re you, and…” Garrus wished talking was as simple as math. Math had right or wrong answers. Feelings were messy and complicated, and you had no control over them. Numbers, you could control.

Shepard was an artist with speech. She knew exactly when to use none at all.

“And, well, I don’t want it to, uh, undermine your, uh, authority.”

She was silent in a horrible, uncomfortable way. His plates itched. He counted the crinkles in the foil. When she finally spoke, she chose each word as carefully as a sniper low on ammunition. Nothing wasted and everything hitting its mark. “So, you want this to be a ‘shore leave thing’ to protect my professional reputation.”

She made it sound weak and feeble to his aural canals, so he feigned all the enthusiasm he could muster.  “Yeah. Exactly.”

Shepard’s expression did not change, however, to reveal any similar feelings of elation.  Instead, she continued to assume a blank, bland air.

In a jangle of nerves, both about his subsequent chances and her finer feelings, he added, “Don’t get me wrong. I still want to do this. Just…”

“Off-ship. Right. Okay.”

He glanced quickly at her reflection, but her face gave away nothing. He had never been subjected to her smooth, complacent mask before. He felt very cold and bereft.

The silence was like a vacuum. He had to speak into it lest he be lost in the void. “So, uh, do you want to go back first or...?”

Her shoulders moved incrementally, but not in a shrug. She quickly tucked her hair behind her ears and turned away from the mirror. “No. I have some errands to run.”

“Oh. Right. Uh, do you need help or—?” He made absolutely no move toward her.

“No. I’m good.”

“Oh. Right.”

She said nothing. He couldn’t bear the silence he thought he sought. “I’ll see you later.”

She nodded, as though dismissed, so formal were her movements. “Yeah.”

When she was by the door, he called out helplessly, like dangling a piece of twine to a drowning figure, “You know, I had a really good time.”

She turned her head to him as the door cycled. “Right. Yeah. Me too.” It was a smile. Not his smile.

 

* * *

 

 

He made it back to the _Normandy_ in record time, but not before he tried to pay Eilukka for the room. It turned out Shepard had gotten to him first and no one was more persuasive than she.

Two hours later, heading back to the solace of the main battery after a quick trip to the bathroom, Garrus, lost in thought, nearly collided with Miranda.

“Have you seen Shepard?”

He tried to sound unconcerned. “She’s not back yet?”

Yet, for some reason, Lawson regarded him sharply. “No. Did you see her at all?”

He swallowed, assuming his most casual stance. “We met up a few times.” _His keelbone against her breasts, her thighs wrapped around his waist, her mouth on his length, his talons in her hair._

But Miranda was too busy watching the elevator for signs of movement to notice Garrus’ mandibles and talons twitching.  “It’s unusual for her to be off-ship for long.”

“She’s been checking in, though. I mean, I was there when—” His _tongue and talons working together to earn her soft cries._

Miranda appraised him again, “Yes, you were going to have dinner together.”

Garrus was a detective once, however. He adopted an empty stare and Miranda half-shrugged, as if bored with the conversation already. He turned, swallowing his relief as he nearly made it to the main battery, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Lawson. You were looking for me?”

It was Shepard, of course, but more it was the most natural looking he had seen her since the night at the bar, celebrating their victory over Saren. Gone were the stiff, ill-suited civvies, replaced by softly draped charcoal leather and suede.

Miranda looked as astonished as Garrus felt. She was staring at Shepard’s new heeled boots. “Are those the—”

Garrus knew nothing about human aesthetics, aside from media caricatures, but he knew Shepard looked stunning. She must have felt good too, given the off-hand way she replied, “Yes.”

Miranda was agape. “In anthracite suede? But there’s a—”

Dr. Chakwas had emerged from the med-bay and Kasumi materialised, both admiring Shepard’s new attire. She interrupted Miranda. “Three standard month waiting list? Yeah, I thought I heard that.”

Kasumi’s mouth curved beneath her hood. “Five-finger discount, Shep?”

“Commander, don’t tell me you used your Spectre authority to jump a waiting list for boots,” admonished Dr. Chakwas.

Shepard held up her hands in placation. “Hey, come on now. I can’t help it if I make an inquiry about a pair of boots I saw in an ad and the saleswoman just happens to have worked near the Presidium Gardens about two years ago and recognised me and wanted to show her appreciation.”

Kasumi giggled into her hand. “So, what did you do for the jacket?”

Shepard brushed some non-existent dust off the sleeve of her new togs. “Some harmless flirting and a brand endorsement might have occurred.”

“Well, I think you look spectacular.” Dr. Chakwas seemed to have just noticed Garrus silently observing the discussion. “Don’t you agree?”

Shepard put in smoothly, “Oh, Garrus doesn’t like grey.” It was said as a dismissive, teasing joke, but it cut Garrus to the quick.

She, more than anything, represented grey to him. He couldn’t stop himself. “I don’t know. I’m starting to see its appeal.” The words were so warm that Dr. Chakwas looked between him and Shepard searchingly and even Miranda raised a brow, but he had already turned and gone.

 

* * *

 

 

He buried himself in math.

Numbers were soothing and simple, resilient and reliable. You couldn’t hurt or kill them, disappoint or let them down. They were clean, solvable puzzles. Easily understood. Unchangeable, unwavering. Friendly, comfortable, with no strings attached.

He found himself easily bored.

His thoughts drifted constantly to the confines of that hotel room. The way she spoke and sighed and smiled. How her hair tumbled so brightly over her translucent shoulders and the proud bones there. The impossibly soft skin of her thighs. The way she said his name like a plea and a prayer.

Shooting things helped tremendously. As long as he was ground-side, with a gun in his hand, he was professional, skilful; completely occupied in mind, body, and spirit. It was easy to be right back where they were: Vakarian and Shepard, righting wrongs one heat sink at a time.

It was impossible to be alone with her. She was unfailingly poised and charming; the consummate Commander Shepard around him:  professional with a hint of flirtatious audacity.

It was unbearable when she came by on her daily rounds. He threw himself, nearly literally, into calibrating the thanix cannons. If he could have crawled inside of them and lived among their platinum perimeters, he would have dwelt there forever. Instead, he barely acknowledged anyone’s existence, including her own, until he was called down to the ground again.

It went on like that for weeks. It might have continued on through the Omega-4 Relay if it weren’t for Jack.

Of course Jack was the one who noticed. Tali had so recently come aboard and was strangely preoccupied with worries she wouldn’t yet share. Joker and Dr. Chakwas kept their own counsel. But Jack… Well, Jack was Jack.

Garrus had taken to grabbing MREs at odd hours, minimising the potential of interacting with anyone. He thought, on that particular day, the middle of the second shift would be safe. Shepard would know what they say about assumptions.

Jack had just cracked open a fizzy, sugary drink that slopped over its container and splashed onto the floor. It was so like her to make a mark like that, to announce her presence and leave a tag like a duct rat, that he couldn’t help but flick an irritated, amused look Shepard’s way.

She sighed inaudibly, and put two fingers to her brow.

“One of your fish die or something?”

Shepard, diligent caretaker of fish and eel alike, looked confused. “No, they’re fine.”

Jack took a gulp of her drink, then belched. “Joker or Tali sick?”

Shepard shot a somewhat despairing look at Kasumi, who was busy brewing tea. “No, they’re fine, too. Why?”

Garrus thought she looked more tired than usual. He shoved his MRE in the microwave and stared impatiently at the dwindling countdown.

“Cuz you look like your best friend died or something and since he’s right here,” she indicted Garrus with a sloshy swish of her soda, “I figured it was the fish or something.”

He thought he could feel Shepard’s eyes on him for a moment, but he didn’t so much as indicate he heard any part of the conversation. Forty-one seconds.

Shepard began to say something, but Kasumi had slipped effortlessly into a chair and leaned her chin in her hands, observing the Commander from under her hood. “You do seem a little blue, though, Shep. A pale, elusive azure.” The thief paused and then, as though plagiarism was a bridge too far, admitted archly, “I read that in a book once.”

Garrus couldn’t catch himself before he turned and looked at Shepard. She didn’t just look tired; she looked brittle. And though she was aiming a smirk at Jack and Kasumi, it didn’t reach her eyes. He suddenly realised that he couldn’t remember the last time Shepard had really smiled. Not that incorrigible, secret smile. Not since shore leave. She was still friendly and even coquettish with him, but it was true. That delicious, smothered secret hidden in the corner of her mouth seemed to be gone.

His MRE cycled down and emitted three beeps.

Quickly, he grabbed the hot plate and excused himself. Jack might have said, “Calibrate my ass,” but in truth, he was preoccupied with his sudden discovery.

He had done that. He had wrecked something really good in not only his life, but someone else’s—someone he truly cared about—because he was so damned scared of doing just that.

Garrus didn’t like irony when it applied to him.

He poked morosely at his food, feeling like a self-piteous ass for a good ten minutes. Then, just as he opened the console to begin running the numbers again, he wondered if this problem was fixable as well.

It wasn’t as though she had proposed anything unreasonable. Relationships were normal occurrences. They worked fine on turian ships. Perhaps they did so badly in the Alliance because of the stigma attached and all the red tape they faced. And it wasn’t an Alliance ship. It was Cerberus. The crew had been surprisingly easy going with their alien additions, which probably had more to do with Shepard’s inherent persuasiveness than anything else. Besides, they could still keep it quiet. They didn’t need to flaunt anything just to be together. They _were_ together in every other sense that avoiding her these past few weeks likely raised more questions than if someone saw him headed down from her quarters.

And, he missed that smile of hers. He would do anything to see it again.

She still came by him last on her rounds. He had never thought about it before, but now it gave him confidence. This time, he was waiting. “Got a minute?”

He hoped to see that smile, but he got a flat, brief half-quirk instead. “I think that’s my line. What’s up?”

He stepped forward and palmed the door controls behind her. She didn’t look alarmed, just concerned. “Is everything okay?”

He took her in his arms.

It was like Tuchanka all over again, but without the caution or reserve. She melted into him like ice scorched by lava, urging him closer to her, pulling him down into her mouth. He walked her back, until she bumped into the console, and he lifted her up onto it without breaking away from her mouth.

He stripped his gloves off and tangled her hair between his talons. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he bit softly into her collarbone, all pressure and just pinpricks of teeth.

She said his name like it was divine and caught his mandibles between her hands.

He tried to smile anyway. “So, those things I said… scratch that.”

She gave an unbelievable little laugh as he started nipping at the line of her jaw, but she turned her face toward his, leaving him no choice but to lean his forehead against hers. She still looked doubtful and seemed about to say as much. He brushed his hand over her mouth, tracing the curve of her lips. “You have to be more selfish, Shepard.”

The noise she made was neither humorous or pleasant. “I’m selfish enough to ask the person— the people,” she hastily amended, “I care most about to come join me in hell. I’d say that’s selfish enough.”

His fingers followed the lines of her cheekbones to the funny fringes ringing her eyes. They fluttered shut. “If you really thought this was a suicide mission, you wouldn’t have asked us. You’d happily march Cerberus to their deaths, but not your friends. I know you.” The conviction she often spoke with, that he always held in awe, echoed in his subvocals.

Her eyes opened at that, a little wonderingly. Her mouth parted, but for once, Shepard seemed unable to speak.

He leaned in again, pressing his mouth against her ear. She shivered at his rumbled, “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she breathed in such a soft, little way, akin to the quiet, pleasured sounds he grew accustomed to on shore leave that he twitched hard behind his loosening plates.

And though she had a way of distracting him with words, he remained undeterred. His tongue traced the shell of her ear. “But what do you want from me?”

She hesitated, then stroked his scarred face until he stopped and met her eyes. Her voice was still quiet, but it was firm with honesty. “I want there to be an us.”

He waited for the wave of terror, only to feel a trickling of apprehension. Nervous, but not uncomfortable. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

It hurt his heart to see her look that happy and hopeful and know he was responsible for it all, but pain isn’t always a deterrent. He held her face in his hands, mirroring her own, and waited for his reward. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Her mouth turned up in the corner and didn’t fall, even when she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Kasumi quotes is 'Anne of the Island' by Lucy Maud Montgomery.


	20. Layla Tov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard returns to an old role.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especial thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her fabulous beta work.

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **and Omega, 2185**

To most, sending Shepard into a club, unarmed, to bait a serial killer seemed like a bad idea. Those who didn’t know much about her life with the Reds thought it was crazy.

So, perhaps not so oddly, Miranda didn’t say a word of protest. Instead, she gave her a credit chit.

No one noticed, at first. Shepard’s stride didn’t change. Her bearing and posture remained the same. Joker did a triple take when he realised she was going over Omega’s extortionist docking fees in heels and a great deal of jangly jewellery.

Bangles made a musical note every time she moved her hand. Swirling hoops like miniature mass effect relays glinted mesmerisingly from between softly curling hair. Her eyes were shaded a smoky charcoal and her lips were painted a deep, metallic copper. A delicate touch with a shimmery powder made her cheekbones diamond-sharp.

The heels might have been the same from the Hock mission, but the dress, though the same colour, was vastly different. Where Kasumi’s dress had mimicked Shepard’s armour in rigid construct and stiff leather, this was a soft, draped cut in the soft black one saw in deep space.

“You clean up nice, Commander.”

“Thanks, Joker.” She tugged at the brim of his cap affectionately.

The plan was for Garrus to go inside, ahead of Shepard, and blend into the crowd. Then, when Morinth ostensibly lured her away, Garrus and Samara would follow their location via omni-tool. Having never done undercover work in his tenure at C-Sec, she advised him to get a booth and a dancer.

“You want me to get a lap dance?”

“No, I want you to sit and watch the bar from behind a sizeable asari ass.”

It could never be said that dating Commander Shepard was boring.

He scoped out a listless-looking dancer nearing matron stage and offered her a generous tip if she danced without engaging him, no questions asked. She agreed without batting an eye.

When Garrus first started out at C-Sec, he put in overtime doing security at the Presidium Gardens Theatre. This entailed sitting high in a sniper’s perch in the upper catwalks, waiting for never-to-come threats from down the barrel of his scope. He also got to see some very prestigious talent on occasion. It had fascinated him to see the actors, relaxed and joking backstage, then poignant and serious before the curtains.

She was Shepard, and then she wasn’t. The very air around her transmuted. She walked differently, as though she had never known heartache or fear, as if she still thought life was an excellent adventure to embark upon.

Her hand extended out to run her fingers against the bar. At first, he thought it was a trifle staged. And then she caught the light.

For a moment, she glittered like a star. The dim lighting reflected and refracted off her bangles and rings. Instantly, he understood. Most of the room, involuntarily or not, turned toward her for a moment, squinting at the source. A few didn’t turn back.

She slid onto a barstool and lifted her hand to the bartender with negligent grace. Her bracelets sparkled.  One of her new admirers, a blonde human, draped himself next to her, and quickly assumed her order.

She smiled up at him as though he were so clever and wise. But how quickly she grew bored! Shepard always maintained eye contact in a conversation, but she flitted her glance away to a dark human who was watching her beyond her current suitor. Shepard never condescended, but she flashed patronising little smiles as she played with her earrings. As the two humans vied for her attentions, she twinkled at a turian who had, apparently, told her something quite hilarious.

The blonde was offended and jerked her face toward him roughly. Garrus half stood, startling the bored dancer in front of him. He waved her off, too distracted to care about his flimsy cover, in time to see the blonde’s hand seemingly gently removed from her face and held at his side until the cords of muscle stood out on his neck. His face grew a blotchy red, then paled just as quickly, as she sweetly declined his advances.

She stood with a sigh, as though tired of the entire scene, and waved the bare-faced turian off, sending sparks of light once more.

A cerulean asari then appeared, quite solicitous of the glittery girl.

Garrus sat back down.

The asari led the woman to a dim booth far across from him. They spoke in low tones, but the woman looked captivated. Occasionally, though, her interest seemed to wane, and she’d fiddle with an earring or examine her rings until the asari fixed her great, luminous eyes on hers.

Eventually, they left the club.

Garrus knew one hundred and eighty seconds equalled three standard minutes, but the brief wait seemed excruciatingly long. He got up, stiltedly thanked the weary dancer with the promised tip, and went to join Samara in the alley behind the club.

They spoke little to each other. Garrus said he’d like to go ahead and see if he could find a position near wherever Morinth was leading them. A little back up firepower never hurt anyone. Samara agreed, looking grim. He assumed, of course, it was because of the task at hand. But then Samara turned her cool gaze on him and said, “The Commander did that quite well.”

Garrus was so nonplussed, it didn’t occur to him to ask how Samara could have seen anything from outside the club. “Of course she did,” was his loyal response. “You asked for her help.”

And yet, Samara looked displeased.

He did find a spot, an air shaft on a roof nearby. He watched Shepard and Morinth through his scope. Just as she had turned into the bait when she walked into the club, she turned back into Shepard on Morinth’s couch. There was a terrible moment when Samara and Morinth were locked in battle and Shepard hesitated. She seemed to be looking straight at him, with that expression, the very one she gave him on the Presidium almost three years ago. She knew she couldn’t save both of them, just like she knew she couldn’t save the Council. She was asking for help, knowing there was no assuagement.

“Come on, Shepard. You know what to do.”

She couldn’t have heard him, of course, so it was coincidence she moved just then.

Her bangles jangled merrily on the long walk back to the docks.

 

* * *

 

 

He took a few cautious steps out of the main battery. It looked deserted, so perhaps it was safe to—

“Garrus.”

_Crap._

“Oh, uh, Samara. Just grabbing something to eat.”

_Don't ask about—_

“I am concerned about Shepard.”

_Crap._

“Ah, well, she's fine.” He stood awkwardly between the haven of the Thanix cannons’ home and the brutal walk to the mess.

Samara didn’t move from her upright position near the empty tables and chairs. “Physically, I am sure. I meant that I am concerned about her conduct.”

Having resigned himself to a conversation, Garrus redoubled his efforts to make something to eat, only to stop abruptly in his actions at Samara’s accusation.  It took effort not to snap, but his quick reply was very stiff. “Shepard’s the most honourable person I've ever met.”

Her cool blue gaze did not move from his. “She hesitated.”

With that, he abandoned all hopes of eating and kicked out a chair. “Yeah, she did.”

Samara remained, unmoving. “I would not have hesitated in her position. You would not have hesitated.”

Garrus sighed and sat down heavily. He indicated the chair across from him, though he was still a little surprised that she sat down in it anyway. “You’re right. We see the world in black and white. She doesn't. She can find grey areas in black holes.” He offered a very turian grin.

Samara merely blinked coldly at him.  He straightened his face into more serious lines. “Look, the thing about Shepard is that she thinks she can save everyone. And, hell, looking at this ship, sometimes I think she can.” Samara regarded him sharply then. He coughed and went on. “When I first joined up with her to take down Saren, I thought to myself, ‘This is great. She's a Spectre; she doesn't have to answer to anybody. We’ll see some quick action and paint the bare-faced bastard with bullets.’ And do you know what we spent months doing? Talking. She may carry a small armoury on her back, but her real weapon is her tongue. She talked her way into secure facilities and hostile colonies and right back out of them. Spirits, she talked Benezia and Saren down. Now, granted, they both ended up dead, but she didn't shoot either one of them. Shepard talked them both out of indoctrination, or as far as anyone can, I guess. And, you know, I didn't get it at first. Hell, sometimes I still don't get it. I don't have her patience. I don't see the good she always swears is there. But she didn't hesitate because she was seriously thinking of letting Morinth kill you. She hesitated because she was thinking of some way to save you both.”

He had never said this much about Shepard to anyone and it left him a bit taken aback by his own candour. Samara still regarded him silently and though he felt the back of his neck heating up, the cop in him met her gaze unwaveringly.

“She had a chance to save the Council, did she not?”

He had the briefest urge to slam her head into the table. She wasn't there. She didn’t know. He could almost taste air from that day in the smouldering wreckage of the Presidium, but his voice was level and calm. “She had to _decide_ ,” the stress on that word could have bent steel, “in a split second, whether saving one ship carrying three very important people, was worth risking the lives of millions. She didn't choose to let them die any more than she chose to let Admiral Kirabo or Uticencis die.” Naming two fallen heroes, one Alliance and the other from the Hierarchy.  “She saved the most lives that day. Not the most important lives. The most lives, period.”

Samara watched him so intently that his plates itched. “I concede that her actions are admirable in their intention, however she is naïve. Not everyone can be saved. Some lives are indeed more important than others.”

His hard-won patience snapped. “Then I guess naïveté is what we need because your brand of cynicism is what's gotten the galaxy into this mess.”

Samara blinked, surprised. “It was not my intention to upset you, Garrus.”

Again, he sighed. “Look, it’s just... we all know the galaxy isn’t sunshine and rainbows, but there’s got to be hope. Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?”

Her sharp gaze was on him once more. “And what do you hope for? To be a Spectre, like Shepard?” ‘With Shepard’ was echoed in the sentiment.

Garrus leaned back in his chair, assuming a comfortable sprawl. “I’d be happy with a Reaper-free galaxy, at this point.”

Her eyes did not soften a modicum. “Would you? Would anything else be exciting enough for you?”

 _A life with Shepard_. “Yeah. Something would.”


	21. Precious Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard gets in some exercise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everlasting thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her wonderful beta work.
> 
> A zissen Pesach and Happy Easter!

**_Normandy SR-2, 2185_ **

 

It wasn’t Freedom’s Progress or Horizon or even the Collector ship that knocked Shepard off her feet. Those places and events made her angry and she knew how to work with anger. Anger made her stronger, faster, braver. Anger powered her near-inexhaustible drive. Anger stopped her from dwelling on things she couldn’t bear to face.

Seeing Jack on Pragia didn’t make her angry; it made her heart break.

She could have been Jack. If she made different choices, if she had been built differently; if she let herself, she could be as broken and hurting as that girl. And that realisation hit her harder than any brush-off, accusation, or lie ever could.

She hated Cerberus so much that, sometimes, when she saw their orange logo on the grandiose caricature they called the _Normandy SR-2_ , she couldn’t breathe. She tasted iron when Lawson spoke to her from the grooves her teeth made in her tongue. Taylor so infuriated her with his choice ‘cuttlebone’ comment that she formally reprimanded him and then only spoke to him when strictly necessary. Chambers perhaps earned the least of her icy wrath, because Shepard had been in her role once, as Anderson’s assistant earlier in her career. Yet, she was always calm, cool, polite and professional with each and every Cerberus operative.

Her knuckles were continuously raw from their frequent dates with the punching bag in the cargo hold.

Her father used to tell her she spent too much time in her head. She was a curious, precocious kid, too much among adults who lived in a shadowy world, living in books and vids and creating imaginary friends rather than making real ones. She loved to learn, but sometimes what she learnt would scare her. He would take her to Highbridge Park, with the beautiful, Victorian-era brick water tower that spiralled above the Harlem River, when she was still young enough to believe it was Rapunzel’s tower. There, on nights it was so clear that it seemed possible to see the stars, he would tell her: “It's a good thing to be scared.  It means you're smart. Stupid people aren't scared and it’s called bravery. But courage is when you're smart enough to be scared and you push through to get the job done anyway. So will you be courageous for me and play the game?”

This was not the first time he mentioned ‘the game.’  Ari Shepard saw all the galaxy as a scheme and its inhabitants were merely the players vying for a starring role as fortune’s favourite. And any good con artist could tell you that you make your own fortune.

So she had nodded, and promised she would. She never broke her promises.

Her father was like a sun, to be worshipped and to bask in, but to never examine too closely for knowledge of being burned. But he doted on her, and though she had a curiously strong moral compass for one so young, she thought he was just like wily Loki, Puck and Reynard the Fox. All her favourite characters from the stories she loved, as grey as his dapper suits and merry eyes.

And now he was dead. Like the mother she never knew and the fifty men and women on Akuze. As dead as the people turned to husks during those months trying to stop Saren and convince the Council the Reaper threat was real and the colonists on the Collector ship they found.  Ashes and dust, like Williams on Vimire.

Alenko was right not to trust her. She was duplicitous, deceitful, dangerous, and cruel.  She was the piper who led so many eager to their deaths. She was Death, destroyer of worlds. She offered the pomegranate but never ate a single seed. She was an actress, a charlatan, a silver-tongued siren. Maybe he was just Odysseus, with wax in his ears.

What kind of person asks their friends to join them on a one-way journey to hell? What kind of person works alongside the people who killed her comrades? What kind of person murders the ones they love?

Wasn’t that what she was doing now, after all? Inviting those she loved best on a merry march into hell?

No, she wasn’t angry that Tali initially turned away from her on Freedom’s Progress, or that Alenko doubted her so deeply on Horizon, or even that the Illusive Man didn’t trust his investment enough to be honest with her. She was devastated to see the flicker of doubt in Tali’s glowing eyes, horrified to realise how little faith Alenko and the Alliance had in her, and terrified to acknowledge how much control Cerberus worked over her life. The life they tried to take away once before; the life they had inexplicably given back.

After Pragia, Shepard pounded the bag with all her might and Garrus, without asking or being told, braced it for her. If she had once been his idol, he now admired her cracked feet of clay. Whether it was sweat or tears that burned her eyes, no one could say for certain.


	22. Simply Irresistible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard observes her fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especial thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her epic beta-work and encouragement.
> 
> The following story contains sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **, 2185**

 

She was standing on tiptoe, making her long legs seem endless, in front of the fish tank. A somewhat threadbare grey tee shirt, faded and stretched from ample launderings, slid invitingly off one shoulder. Her bare arms and legs, and that exposed shoulder glowed like the heart of a flame in the blue light.

“I just wanted to let you know that the upgrade instillation is coming along. That last haul you pulled in really did the trick. The cannons should be up to the task.”

He who never understood the galaxy’s obsession with asari found himself inflamed by a human. When had she become so appealing to him? Not her authority, or sense of humour, or her camaraderie, but her foreign body with its alien limbs and appendages. Was it as recent as Tuchanka, when he discovered he found her beautiful, haloed in the nuclear aurora? Or back during decom after Feros, espying the way pink and red scars snaked alluringly across her form? Maybe it was at the very beginning, on the steps in front of the Council Chambers and the way one corner of her mouth twitched upward in a smile she couldn't seem to smother.

She had that smile now, though she didn't turn from her aquatic menagerie to address him. “You don't need an excuse to come up here, you know.”

He came to her cabin more often now, making use of her so-called open door policy, but would never stay longer than an hour or two. Three at the most. He certainly wouldn’t stay overnight. He said it plainly, citing decorum and professionalism. He was still a crew member and she was still the commander of the ship. She didn’t argue it with him. He knew she was treading the waters of this relationship very carefully, not daring to push, and all at once he realised how much power he had over her. It humbled him and made him comprehend what his father and Shepard herself could never teach him about respecting the limits of boundaries and laws being there for a good reason. He would never want to use that kind of power over her for any reason. It made him wish he was braver; it made him wish he could gather up the courage to tell her how much she, and this relationship, had come to mean to him.

He couldn't resist that expanse of flesh any longer. Easily wrapping his rangy arms around her waist, he peered over her blue-lit shoulder and said, “Well, I was worried about the fish, too. How are they?”

She laughed despite herself, tilting her head to make room for his. “Joe seems sluggish.”

Joe was the eel, and especially dear to Shepard’s heart. All of the residents of her tank had odd names. Derek and Don, Micky and Reggie. It seemed they were all named after late, great members of an especial sports team.  Joe, however, had the dubious honour of being named after not only a hero of that team, but also the famed star of another, far more infamous sports club.

“He looks all right.” He was not, however, looking at Joe at all. In fact, he was busy exploring her bared shoulder with his tongue while his hands, gloriously glove free, slipped under the scanty hem of her shirt.

“Garrus. What are you doing?”

“I kind of thought it was obvious.”

Shepard could put up with a lot of torturous ministrations, but she couldn’t bear to face away from him for long. She twisted around in his arms and began to yank her shirt up and off.

He caught her arms, gently pushing them down. “No. Leave it.”

She arched into him, not fighting the grip, soft and warm through the layers of fabric between them. “Ratty grey tee shirts do it for you?”

It wasn’t the shirt, but what is symbolised. Shepard, armourless, in a way she only was with him. He closed the infinitesimal distance between them, capturing her between his body and the luminescent tank. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

She had to tilt her head up further to see him. He couldn’t resist the column of her exposed throat. She gasped as he tasted it. “What else?”

He worked his way down to the hollow between her collarbone, releasing her arms to slip his hands under her shirt once more. “Onyx armour.”

“On—onyx armour?” she faltered as his talons slid up her thighs to cup her ass. “Really?”

He squeezed the flesh in his hands for emphasis. “It does incredible things for your six.”

Her hands flew to unfasten his tunic and explore the plates and hide she exposed. As she kneaded his waist, he growled in pleasure, then frustration, plucking at her underwear.  “I don’t understand why you insist on wearing these.”

Somehow, in his distraction, she had manoeuvred to kiss a path down his neck. “Hygiene.”

He made a dark, low sound to share his thoughts on that explanation, which only served to make her shiver pleasantly.

Pulling away to look up at him once more, she offered hesitantly. “You could rip them off,” Her eyes were dark with urging.

He gathered a fistful of the stretchy material and gave an experimental tug. It snapped back with a faint crack, stubbornly clinging to her hips.

She laughed in that giddy way she had on Tuchanka, though this time he recognised the desperate lust behind it. He pulled his mandibles up in frustration, but then caught her eye unexpectedly. It was too ridiculous. He joined in with his own rich chuckles, pressing his forehead against hers.

Her amusement faded first, her countenance growing serious, searching his until he quieted down himself. Their mouths crashed together, tongues meeting immediately. His hands knocked against hers in their eagerness to strip her underwear off. She only half stepped out of them before he lifted her up, using the fish tank as leverage, and wrapped her legs around his waist. The offensive garment dangled precariously off her ankle.

“Wait, the fish—"

“Fuck the fish.”

He fantasised about this. The glow of the tank haloing her like the aurora on Tuchanka. Would they steam the plexiglass?

Her fingers were under his fringe now, pressing into the sensitive skin there as he nipped and licked at her neck and shoulder. “What else?” she breathed into his aural canal.

“Your collarbone.”

“Everyone knows that.” He hushed her by catching it carefully between his teeth. Her hands scrambled to unbuckle his pants.

“Sunburns.”

She seemed about to speak, so he kissed her, hard and deep and thoroughly. “That corner of your mouth.”

She was too breathless to speak, but he went on, dragging a hand up her body as the other balanced her.  “The way your eyes change colour.”

They fluttered closed as his talons threaded in her copper-gold locks and tugged. “Your _hair._ ”

“Garrus,” she whispered, squeezing her thighs against his waist. “Please.”

He came entirely out of his plates at her needy tone. She pushed her hips against his, trapping his erection between them. He pressed her harder against the tank, loosening his hold on her hair to brace his hand on the cool plexiglass. She took the interruption to kiss him, and for a moment the game was forgotten as their tongues stroked together.

She broke away first, so reluctantly, but panting for air.

“Here,” he gasped against her cheekbone, licking a stripe to mark it.

Her hands slid down his carapace, reaching between them to push his unfastened pants off his hips. He hissed as the fabric caught on his rigid length and he batted her hands away to tug the shirt up and over her head.

The truth was that he ignored her breasts sometimes. They were appealing in that they belong to Shepard and every inch of her was desirous to him. But he had discovered she would gasp in the same way when he traced the small of her back with a single talon or moan softly when he carefully bit her collarbone. Now, though, he wanted that inch of her. He buried his face in the white, swelling flesh there and laved a rosy nipple. “Here and here and here,” he rumbled against her swiftly rising breast, caressing a path from her ribs to her waist to the sharp hollow of her hip.

His talons reached between them, stroking the velvety skin of her inner thigh. “How soft you are right here.”

She tugged his fringe until he looked up at her and the sight left him breathless once more. No one but she ever looked at him like that. The mix of yearning and adoration set his blood on fire and chastened him just the same.

He pressed his forehead to hers, speaking so low his subvocals seemed louder than his voice. “The way you look at me.”

“Garrus.” Her lips barely moved as their breath mingled.

Their mouths and tongues met once more, sweeter, but still as urgent as before. Her fingers were under his fringe again, pressing his face closer to hers.

He slid a finger inside her and swallowed her moan. Her hands fell to his waist, nails lightly scratching his electrified hide. “Especially this,” he rumbled into her ear.

His thumb glided over the swollen flesh above her entrance and she said his name again, fingers faltering in her own efforts to bring him pleasure.

“How wet you are,” he growled, moving his hand faster between them.

He watched her lips move silently, the way her lashes fluttered and how her head tilted back, exposing her throat. He wanted to be inside her more than he wanted to tease her any further. Withdrawing his talons from her, she whined in displeasure, but before she could retaliate, he guided himself inside her.

She gasped, like she always did, as though receiving a gift she wanted but was still surprised to get.

“That… that noise you make,” he faltered, bracing a hand behind her, squeaking with condensation on the tank.

She made more, and he joined her as they built a rhythm. Once, he paused to adjust his angle, and she clenched down on him so tightly that he saw sparks. “How tight you are,” he managed to ground out. Her fingers were distracting, digging into his waist.

He wanted her to come first.

He moved his hand between them once more, merciless in his assault. She clung to him, back arched and head thrown back as she came. It was the most beautiful thing he ever witnessed and he was never sure if he said it aloud or just thought it as he pumped into her to his own completion.

His legs threatened to give way, but she had already recovered, hugging him close, taking his weight against her and the glowing aquarium. Into his keelbone, between lazy kisses, she smiled.

“So, just a few things?”


	23. Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus sees stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work and support!

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **, 2186**

 

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.” He was, in fact, feeling a lot of things that weren’t very fine at all. His head was pounding, his vision was still sparking, and his mouth tasted like a varren crawled into it and died. The med-bay was too bright, the bed was hideously uncomfortable, and, most of all, he was embarrassed that a snarling beast in a business suit knocked him out cold. In front of her. Not Commander Shepard. His _girlfriend._

She made that flat, humming sound humans do when they consider their words. “Well, I come bearing gifts.”

He hadn't noticed she had brought in quite a lot of things because turning his head had seemed like the worst idea in the galaxy. And, honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. It was ridiculous. He was aware of how juvenile he was behaving. He had watched her hiss and grunt through a mission and drag herself to the med-bay afterwards. She was not the kind of person to endanger her crew by ignoring flesh wounds to soothe a bruised ego.

But this was just embarrassing. A rocket to the face, well, living through that was impressive. A creature from a barely sentient race knocking you out with a piece of office furniture was just humiliating.

She was talking, though, in a light, careless way that he knew meant she was worried about him and his fragile ego. It made his plates itch and his head throb with shame.

“… Some pillows— the firm ones you like— those beds are a bitch for anyone—"

She arranged them beautifully behind his fringe, as though she had looked through the feed of a turian lifestyle chronicler _._ She probably had.

“Shepard—"

“The latest Armax, Kassa, _and_ Ariake catalogues—" Three datapads found a new home on the tray that slid over the bed.

“Shepard—"

“A blanket from my personal stash because Dr. Chakwas keeps it as cold as all hell in here and I personally hate those damn hospital blankets that are just really heavy towels—"

It was as she expertly tucked him in that he said in exasperation, “ _Shepard._ ”

“Wrex.”

The joke, so unexpected, made him turn to see her mouth quirked into something between a smirk and a smile, before his head violently protested the motion. He put a hand up to his eyes with a groan. “Don't make me laugh.”

He heard metallic clinking, not loud enough to make him cringe, and some very familiar, comforting scents filled the otherwise antiseptic-laden air. He cracked open his eyes and dropped his hand in surprise.

She set out a steaming bowl of _tarandrus_ bone broth, with the bone cracked and marrow glistening invitingly, and smaller bowl of _chrysomelum_ seed jelly.

Well, now he just felt like an ass.

She flexed her hands; her one major tell that she was nervous. “I went on the extranet for the turian equivalent of chicken soup and rugelach. Tali couldn’t taste it, but if it's awful—"

“You made it? You cooked?” He stared at the meal in awe. It really did look like a holo spread. He knew Shepard cared. He knew Shepard did, er, research. But to spend all that time after a long, hard, and time-consuming mission, cooking. Cooking for him… He swallowed, and not from nausea.

She took his silence for doubt, however. “I can, you know. It's shocking, but I'm an actual adult who lived on my own for years and take-out is expensive—"

“Shepard—"

Her hands winked opened and closed at her sides. “But it’s a little harder to do when you aren't familiar with the ingredients, and can't taste it, but the concept isn't really different from flanken and preserves—"

“Shepard—"

“And the supplies aren't fresh—"

He grit his teeth to push through the onslaught of vertigo that hit him like a wave as he pulled himself up to grab her wrist.

“Shepard. Shut up and sit down.”

Her smile was the same bashful one he had only ever seen when they were alone. She sat on the edge of the bed, where he pulled his legs up to account for his calf spurs. Her hands snuck under the militantly tucked blanket to rub the one closest to her. His eyes drifted shut as he sank back onto the admittedly more comfortable pillows as though her touch was soporific.

“I was worried about you,” she ventured to say after a quiet stretch.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Now we’ve both had large objects fall on top of us. I’d say half the Citadel trumps a desk, though.”

“Garrus—" she began with a sigh. She didn’t even protest that it wasn’t half the Citadel. That made him open his eyes to meet the ones focussed on him with such concern.

He reached down to pat her arm. “I’m okay. I've got a hard head.”

He knew that would have made her smile, though his eyes had drifted closed again. Her cool hands left him and he felt her weight shift off the bed.  “I should let you rest.”

Without looking, he caught her hand in his. “You can stay. That spur massage was nice.”

She squeezed it before letting it go to settle back down on the edge of the bed to resume those ministrations. “You can thank Dr. Extranet for that.”

His mandibles flickered. Like any detective, he loved when his hunches were right. “Oh yeah?”

She made that humming noise again, but was more melodic than earlier. “And a few other things. When you feel better.”

He groaned. She had not only done research, she had done _research._ “You killed that thing, right? Because I'd really like to have a go if you didn't.”

She leaned over him and kissed his mandible. “Shh. Rest up.”

He cracked open an eye. “Is that an order?”

Her incorrigible smile told him he was, too. “Damn straight.”

Dutifully, he closed his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”


	24. I'm a Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especial thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work and support.
> 
> I know sometimes authors say 'this chapter wrote itself!' and the reader is inclined to roll their eyes, but this chapter really did just that... in first person. It is the only first person chapter in this story, and I apologise in advance to those who are jarred by this. As an experiment, if it failed, it won't happen again here, and if it works out, all the better! So, without further ado, Garrus speaks.

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **, 2185**

 

The vids would like you to believe love is bright, shattering, and instantaneous. That old human one, about a crime family, says it’s like a thunderbolt.

It wasn't like that for me, though.

I didn't fall in love with her when she stumbled out of the rubble that had been the Presidium.  Oh, I liked her.  Don't get me wrong. She was confounding and inspiring all at once. I liked making her laugh and how’d she lean against the Mako in the cargo hold. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about the way that sunburn marked her face on Virmire, before it all went to hell, or how her collarbone stood out, as white and curved as twin crescent moons. But that's not love.

It wasn't when I saw her through my scope on Omega, either. Though the aggravated glare my concussive round produced did make me feel like I was home in a way I don't ever remember before.  She almost hugged me when I pulled my helmet off. I guess she got there sooner than me.

It wasn't when she stood in my scope again a few months later, saving my spirit instead of my life. I know now I loved her then, but even if my heart was there, my head hadn't caught up.  It's a hard head to crack. Rocket to the face jokes non-withstanding.

It wasn't even when we made good on our mutual attraction. Not the time after the Collector ship where we didn't quite make it into her quarters. Or even when I lost half a day’s work on optimising the precision of the Thanix cannons because my console was just the perfect height to try out a different position of attack.

I'm sorry. I've always enjoyed making terrible puns.

It was like this: We were somewhere in the Shrike Abyssal and it was the dead middle of the night cycle. A good time for a non-human crew member to hit the showers on a Cerberus vessel. Sure, they obviously recruited crew who weren't too extreme in their views, mostly to sell Shepard a sense of security she wasn't buying. I was with her Ontarom when she learned Cerberus was behind Akuze. Still, trying to wash up when two other crew members are trying to figure out where you hide the goods wasn’t very comfortable. I never mentioned this to Shepard, though. The thing— well, one of the many things with Shepard is, you tell her your problem and she makes it her mission to fix it. She shouldered far more than her fair share of crap and it was assaulting her from every direction.  I don't just mean being shot at on a daily basis. Between the Reapers and Collectors breathing down her neck, being disavowed by the Council and Alliance and working with her sworn enemy when friends called her a traitor, not to mention the dying and reviving, well, I didn’t know how she managed it all. I certainly wasn't going to add to it, especially over something so trivial.  So I gathered my stuff and hit the door control.

She was standing in the mess, making tea. Shepard was one of the few humans I ever met who didn't drink coffee. Dr. Chakwas was always impressed that she used loose tea and not those little bags with the tags attached, but admonished her over the amount of sugar she dumped in and, worse, the fact that she poured the brewed, sugary contents of the kettle over ice.

She didn't turn. I guess she didn't hear the door over the whistling kettle. Her face was in profile and even the dim, artificial light played off her deliciously sharp jaw and cheekbone.  She rolled her right shoulder in that achingly familiar way and I thought, _I love her_. Just as naturally as I might think _I'm thirsty_ , or as instinctively as I might breathe air. _I love her._

The vigilant instinct of a solider must have alerted her to my presence because she turned abruptly, a genuinely happy smile reaching her previously guarded eyes even before her mouth. “Hey.”

That smile was for me. The gratification she heaped upon me daily did wonders for my ego, I have to say. Still, I was almost afraid to speak, as though all the wrong words could come tumbling out. I know I can speak impulsively, without thought, though I'd gotten better with that as I've gotten older. I was less inclined to be awkward with Shepard since, well, it wasn't awkward with Shepard

Not at all.

That rare, special smile was starting to fade and I felt a rising panic to be the cause of its disappearance. So, quickly, I managed, “Hey, got a minute?”

It was gone, replaced by a crinkled look of concern over her preternaturally smooth forehead. “Sure,” she said, abandoning her over-brewed tea and melting ice as she crossed the mess and strode past the cryo pods. “Is everything okay?”

I didn't answer. The urge to confide that huge avalanche of emotions packed into such tiny, little words was too great. I dropped my kit and tugged her inside the main battery. Cerberus didn't need to know everything about our business and I swept the room regularly for bugs. You can take the turian out of C-Sec…

She didn't pull away, and that she always trusted me, with her life, to be _in_ her life, made my heart pound like it was fighting to get out of my chest.

“Garrus, what is it?” Her brow was knit in consternation, and her expression grew solemn. I remembered how late it was and noticed the dark smudges underneath her eyes. I knew she didn't sleep well and, as the moment seemed to stretch for an eternity, I felt that wave of panic swell again. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to make a self-depreciating quip, just something to fill the air.

“You—you look tired.” I might have been panting. Okay, I was. It almost hurt to breathe

Her tired eyes glimmered teasingly. “You know what I say about compliments, Detective Vakarian.”

I swallowed and tried again. “No, I mean... I _worry_ about you.”

She looked like she knew what I wanted to say and couldn't. “You're the only one who does.”

I began to protest, “That's not—"

But she cut me off. She stood on tip-toe, with those strange, loveable feet, pulled my face down to hers, and pushed that soft, wide mouth against mine.

The kissing thing had taken some practice, which I sometimes think I was more eager to figure out than she was. She was always so mindful of what might be more pleasurable for me and it frustrated me sometimes. She had to learn to be more selfish, and I told her so, more than once. She laughed until I proved how magnanimous I could be. That was when I lost twelve hours of calibrations.

It was worth it.

My arms were around her waist, but before I could try to reciprocate, she buried her face against my neck.  I closed my eyes, drinking her in with a sharp breath as she pressed her mouth against that soft spot of skin on my throat.  She whispered there, all lips and teeth and tongue, “I worry about you, too.”

I did eventually get to shower. The water pressure was actually worse upstairs, but the company was so much better.

 

* * *

 

I wanted to say it. Only, the nagging fear of screwing it all up reared its ugly head like a thresher maw bursting through rocky soil.

Did I love her? I don't have her unwavering confidence of self. She never questioned her own beliefs or truths. She might doubt her decisions, but never her motives.

But, she had gotten there first. Her attraction had grown from friendship to passion at a faster pace. Sometimes, I had the uneasy feeling that she navigated her way through the new level of our relationship as though she were coaxing a half-starved varren to trust her enough to eat out of her hand.

And Spirits knew I trusted her more than anyone else in the galaxy.

But, she made all sorts of allowances for my skittishness. She presented the entire relationship as casual and free of any bindings, but I knew from the first that wasn't what she wanted. It was what she’d settle for if it meant having me. Honestly, I don’t think anyone had ever loved me so completely and thoroughly. Sure, my parents and Sol loved me as a son and brother, unconditionally and with all the crap familial relationships entail, but Shepard loved me in that all-consuming blind-faith way of hers. It was like a peculiar sun that shone only on the good and fair of the person, enhancing it until the faults and foibles were eclipsed in the adoring blaze.

Oh, Spirits, who was I kidding? Of course I loved her. But she deserved the perfect moment for me to say it. To put an end to the pretence that this was just ‘blowing off steam’ – and, damn, how I regret ever saying that— for either one of us. To make her feel as safe and assured in my feelings for her as she did for me.

We were destined to never have perfect moments. Most of the _Normandy_ crew had been taken by the Collectors and we were headed toward the promised deaths by way of the Omega-Four Relay.

And I had a momentary lapse of judgement, both with the wine and the music.

But she, like always, took no offence at my bumbling or wounded my ego by mocking it. She did what she always did: soothe me with light, jesting words and serious, caring eyes.

I found myself laying my heart out to her. My fears, my regrets, my failures. All but one chamber, that still beat wildly inside my chest, aching to be released.

So, in the imperfect, dim blue light of her aquarium, racing toward the unknown and feared, I embraced both.


	25. I Always Kill the Things I Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus take a trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my spectacular beta, [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer)
> 
> The events of this chapter and next week's chapter run congruently. I'll post a reminder next week, as well. 
> 
> This chapter also contains sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> Also! Do you do commissions? I'm looking to commission some artwork for this piece. Please contact me in the comments section if you do!

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **and Olor, 2185**

 

It was their first fight as a couple and it was stunning in its viciousness.

She had been holed up in the med-bay with Hackett for over an hour.

Garrus didn’t like the Alliance. Plainly and simply, he finally admitted it to himself.  They treated her like crap. The Hierarchy might expect you to die for the cause and follow bad orders without argument, but they respected each individual soldier. No duty should ask what they asked of her. No debt was worth what they squeezed out of Shepard.

He hovered over his console in self-conscious indecision. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to touch her face and make sure she was really okay. Yet even without Alliance presence aboard the _Normandy,_ he felt it was too obvious, too demonstrative. He knew Shepard could take care of herself. He just wanted her to know that she didn’t have to. They were in this, anything at all, together.

Finally, he decided to wait for her in her quarters.

She nearly snuck up behind him, so anxious and overwhelmed in his thoughts that he barely heard the door cycle open.

“We’re going to Olor.”

“What?” He asked stupidly.

She was practically bouncing on her toes. “Listen. You can get your mom settled in— I can stay for three days, and then I’ll— I’ll go.”

“Shepard.”

He wanted to tell her to stop moving, but he realised she couldn’t. Her hands were fisting rhythmically at her sides. “I want to turn myself in before I get a court marshal. I’ve got a JAG and I can negotiate terms of surrender this way. It’s better optics and—"

“Shepard.”

She danced in and out of his vision like a malevolent spirit. He couldn’t focus on her or her words. “I’ll be able to spend some time with you. Or you can go straight to Palaven, if you don’t want to. It’s no pressure—"

“ _Shepard.”_ If he raised his voice, he wasn’t aware of it. He only knew she had to stop moving for him to understand what she was saying.

She stopped moving, but her body quivered with tension. “I have to. It's the right thing to do.”

He would have laughed if it weren’t so predictable. He found anger replacing his fear at an alarming rate. “The ‘right’ thing and the ‘best’ thing are mutually exclusive. Every time you do the ‘right’ thing by them, you end up hurt or punished or _dead.”_

“You don't understand—"

It wasn’t said in a patronising manner; rather a pleading one, but it was like she trod on his last proximity mine. “No, I don't! I don't understand why you always go running back to them. You're like the girl who goes back to her John when her eye is still swollen shut. And you know what happens to them? They end up dead. But that's what you want, isn't it? You've been chasing death since I met you and I don't know why.”

She was stunned into silence. “That's not true,” she finally whispered, her voice raw.

Her lips were white at the implication, but that didn’t stop him. “Isn't it? Do you know how many times I've watched you run toward it? Ilos, the Collector base—you stood in my scope. You put yourself in my sights. _Spirits,_ Shepard—"

Her voice cut through, wavering despite the steel she tried to put in it. “You don't understand what my life was like before the Alliance. You have people who love you. You have a family. “

His hand sliced through the air. “And this isn't enough for you? Did you even consider us when you decided to do this?”

“It is!” She pleaded, protesting with her voice and eyes. He wanted to look away. “You are all I could have ever hoped for. I don't want to go—"

“Then don't!”

She took a breath and said in a voice so low and full of self-reproach that he could almost feel it like subvocals. “I murdered three hundred and five thousand people. Not ninety-thousand batarians and two hundred and fifteen thousand slaves. Three. Hundred. And five. Thousand. People.”

He felt his anger begin to dampen and thus clung to it all the more stubbornly. “You tried to warn them. You tried to warn the Council and your Alliance over and over again. They were going to die either way. You bought us all time—"

She burst out, almost tearful, “You don't know that! I don't know that!”

He wanted to hold her, but it seemed as though a chasm opened between them. “I know that, at least, all those other times, I was there with you. And the one time I wasn't—" He didn't know he thought that, believed that until he said it.

She reached out for him, “Garrus—"

He gripped her hands in his, like a lifeline. “Stay.”

Her whole form seemed to melt into his. “I want to…”

He stepped forward, as though he found a foothold in his argument. “Stay.”

She began to speak, but he crushed her in his arms without protest. She rained kisses down his face, fervently stripping him of his attire. He was on top of her, inside her, repeating the word until it lost meaning.  Every touch and thrust was a plea for her to stay and each kiss and gasp was begging for his forgiveness. It was frantic in its adoration; brutal in its tenderness. When he found his release and she had not, he slid his hand from the hollow of her hip to where they were joined. She wrapped herself tighter around him as he began to pull out, as though to draw him in entirely, and merge them as one.

“Don't go.”

He wanted to say she was the one who was leaving, but the fight had left him. Instead, he stroked her slick-swollen flesh, pressing his face into the straining column of her throat. “Come for me,” he urged, a rumbling whisper in her ear.

Though the taut line of her body arched against him, she shook her head in refusal.

His fingers stilled in surprised and she took a shaky breath, but didn't move away. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she whispered, pulling him closer still, and, slowly, he resumed his ministrations with a steady but persistent pace.

He tasted the soft spot below her ear and above her jaw before his words breezed over the dampened skin.“Tell me why.”

She only took a quivering breath, holding herself so tightly that he was reminded of the slim branches of the silver birches in the Presidium Gardens and how they would bow in a near perfect arc right before snapping.

He pressed his forehead to hers, heedless to the ache in his wending fingers. The penitent eyes that met his were as full and heavy as a thundercloud over the sea.

He thought perhaps what made her such a great leader was also what kept her from being a perfect soldier. The walls she lacked that invited people to trust her and believe in her were the same barriers she didn't have to protect herself from the burden of ruthless calculus in war and the sum of acceptable losses in the field.

“You have to stop punishing yourself.” He heard the fracture in his subvocals as the tears spilled from her eyes. “Let me help you.”

She came apart with a sob, gasping, “I'm sorry,” as he soothed the tears away with his tongue, and pleading, “I'm sorry,” as he tucked her against him, stroking her hair, down her neck and back then up again, until the muffled entreatments faded to soft breaths. And though her head fit perfectly under his and her breathing would sync with his heartbeat, he lifted her chin and traced her face slowly, reverently, committing it to memory, as though he could ever forget it. And she did the same.

She was always better with words; he once joked, half-proud, she could sell rocks on Tuchanka. But he also knew what it was like to live with the blood of someone’s husband, someone’s daughter, on your hands and the guilt of being the cause of those losses like a wreath of boulders on your shoulders.

 

* * *

 

They did end up meeting Sol on Olor, and helped his mother settle into the Helos Institute. Shepard spent most of the time on her omni-tool, fielding messages from her JAG rep and consulting in matters of her estate.

The night before she had to leave, she woke him in their hotel room at the strange hour that is neither night nor morning. Half asleep, he still reached for her.  He thought that she wanted to have one of those relationship talks in the few hours before she left. The kind he always feared and eluded before. Yet, with that strange clarity that comes when one’s mind can't filter in excuses or reasons, he didn’t dread it now.

But she didn't curl up against him or rest her head on his carapace. Instead, she ran her blunt nails down the softer skin of his stomach and cupped his plates, her words breathing fire against his throat and into his veins. “I want to taste you in the back of my throat for days. I want you so deep inside me that every time I move or breathe, I'll feel the burning ache of it. I want your teeth on my neck and your talons on my back and every millimetre of me inside and out to have your mark.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he got back from the Institute that evening, she wasn't there. He knew it would be harder, this time, because now he knew what she looked like when she was asleep, how she gasped softly, every first time he entered her, like it was the most welcome surprise in the universe. How her hair smelled vaguely like detergent because she wouldn't use anything scented that could give her away on the field, how her thighs were like velvet and steel all at once, and how the little hollow at her throat tasted.

There was a pile of datapads on the bed, arranged with a negligence that he knew took more effort than a neat stack, and a small black box with another datapad next to the bigger pile. He set the box and the first datapad aside, not wanting to deal with them just yet. The others were books—Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, Oxford Dictionary of Idioms, DC Comics 250 Years of Batman, The Iliad and The Odyssey, and more.

He hesitated, holding the box in his hands for a while. Finally, he steeled himself, like pulling off an undersuit after the medi-gel’s done its job.

Inside were her dog tags, the ones Liara returned to her on Ilium. The ones she had worn a lifetime before. He picked them up with a faint jingle. They were cool, like her hands, but when he curled his fingers around them, they warmed the same way.

Underneath, there was a letter. He knew she wrote it more for him to have something tangible because there was no hope his visor would ever be able to translate the scrawling black loops and squiggles crammed on the pages. He guessed right because the datapad that had been just underneath the box said as much.

_Garrus,_

_You always say you'd follow me into hell, but I don't know if our definitions are the same. I don't believe in the hell after death, but I_ know _the hell of watching your friends blown to bits, your comrades screaming in the agony of a slow and painful death. I know the hell of being helpless, of having no choice but to move forward in a losing battle.  Those are hells I know how to navigate. The hell I fear is hopelessness. I’m afraid of petty politics that are so old and ingrained, no one really remembers the cause, but still stand by them because they're familiar and safe. I’m afraid that I'm beating my head against a brick wall and that no matter what I say or do, it won't be enough. I'm afraid of never being heard._

_Yet, I_ hope. _I hope that this time, the Alliance will hear me. I hope that this time the Council will put away their grudges. I hope that we--humans, turians, krogan, asari, salarians, batarians, hanar, drell, elcor, volus, quarians, and yes, even_ geth _, can stop focusing on our differences and instead unite in our similarities. I have to believe that we all hope for similar things because, if we don't, there really is no galaxy to save._

_Most of all, I hope for a future with you. You're the first thing I want to see when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep. But, in order to have that future, I have to do my part to secure it.  If and when I'm put to trial, there will be no way to silence me. If I must be condemned in order to ensure there's a future at all, please understand that isn't me inviting death but embracing life. You know I don't believe one life is worth more than any other, though I might have to admit I do put a higher value on yours above the rest. I hope you have that smug look on your face now because I'm smiling at the thought of it._

_I love you. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'd gladly do it again, every day of my life, to ensure that you’re in it.  In case you ever forget or doubt it, consider that letter a written confession and my tags evidence of that promise. All I ask in return is that you keep safe, because I intend on making good on that future of ours._

He sat there for a very long time.


	26. The Whole Mishpocha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard has tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her amazing beta work!
> 
> This chapter takes place during the previous one.

**Olor, 2185**

Shepard had never wanted to impress anyone before. There were people whose admiration she sought to gain, but she never actively wanted someone to like her. She respected the chain of command, but in her heart of hearts, she didn’t believe in it. Never before has she spent a moment worrying if a stranger would take to her or not. Now, she was actually quaking inside.

They had checked into a convenient, if not terribly accommodative, hotel by the Institute and now were loitering by the welcome centre.

She and Garrus were habitually checking their omni-tools, but for very different reasons.

“Well, I knew my dad was going to be a few more days. Sol probably—"

“Sol probably what?” trilled a silvery-metallic voice behind them.

A delicate, sylph-like turian with bright blue eyes and arms loaded with silver bangles was twitching her mandibles at them. Garrus’ own moved sheepishly. He took an awkward step forward, but Solana ignored this hesitation and, moving with a dancer’s grace, pulled him down to bump her forehead against his.

She pulled back, appraising him sharply, and made a low, chirping noise, along the lines of a whistle. “You look like _shit.”_

At once, he relaxed and replied fondly, “Nice to see you, too.”

Solana looked between him and Shepard expectantly. The latter wondered if she should just introduce herself in her usual forward manner, but she was cowed by this tiny turian who, for all the galaxy, reminded her of a ballerina in a music box.

Instantly, Garrus grew bashful once more. “Oh, uh. Yeah. This is—"

Solana was having none of this social discord, however. She waved a hand and her bangles made music. “Please, I have a vid screen and half a brain. Reports of your death were greatly exaggerated, huh?”

Shepard found herself biting back a smile. Apparently, Solana liked human literature. “Something like that.” She wondered, again, if she should offer her hand, or step forward instead.  “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Solana’s mandibles spread into a grin that made her look even younger than her years. “Hey, let’s go get something in the caf. I’m starved. Garrus, go take care of the paperwork. You know how much he loves _that,_ Commander—"

Both she and Garrus interrupted Solana at once, “Shepard.”

Solana dismissed them both with a tinkle of bangles. “We’ll be fine.” To Garrus, she gave a playful shove in the direction of the welcome centre. “Go on.” Confidently, she slipped by Shepard’s side. “We’ll chat— what do you humans call it in the vids? Girl talk? Come on.”

Shepard found herself helplessly acquiescing with a smile.  “Sure.” But she looked up to Garrus, as though looking for reassurance. “You’ll be okay?

“ _I’ll_ be fine,” he said, levelling a stern glance at his sister. “Sol, go easy. Be nice.”

Sol was the picture of a maligned individual “I’m _always_ nice! Name one time—" Abruptly, she interrupted herself. “You know what, never mind.” She motioned to Shepard to hurry up. With a wayward glance at her boyfriend, the erstwhile commander started to follow his sister down the sanitised halls.

The two darted furtive glances at each other as they made their way to the cafeteria, but it was Solana who spoke first. “You ever eat any salarian cuisine?”

Shepard tried not to grimace. “Uh, no. And I have to say, the idea of salarian hospital food…”

Sol had no such qualms and made a face of disgust. “Yeah, sometimes I’m thankful for nutrient paste.” The cafeteria was a big, airy space with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the swamp-green landscape and yellow sky, but she gestured toward a table in a dark corner. “Over there looks good.”

Though there were many and various food stations, they both headed toward the beverages, marked with the omnipresent blue and red dextro and levo labels. “Not by the windows?” Shepard asked, looking askance at the dreary sky. She so rarely was on land that even a swamp planet was appealing to her.

Solana began to pour herself a steaming drink with a negligent shrug. “Press. Incendiary rounds. Angry batarians.”

Shepard had been dithering over the poor selection of teas, but that stopped her. She swallowed hard and selected the first one her hand hovered over.  “You’re right.”

Sol watched with mingled horror and appreciation as Shepard dumped an inordinate amount of sugar in her cup and poured the syrupy contents over another glass of ice. “I’ve never seen anyone add so much.” She sounded impressed.

Shepard herself shrugged, embarrassed but dismissive. “Cheap and easy calories.”

They sat in the gloomy corner and applied themselves to their drinks. Solana spoke first, as hers was really too hot to drink. “So. Was it really a rocket or is that just one of his stories to impress me?”

Unbidden, images of navy blood came to Shepard’s mind. Her hand faltered as she set her glass down, slopping the contents on the table.

Solana made that chirping sound again. “Shit. How bad was it?”

Shepard winced, mopping up the spill with more care than was needed. “It wasn’t good. Luckily, our chief medical officer, Dr. Chakwas—"

“A human?” Sol interrupted, incredulous.

Shepard balled up her wet napkins and looked up. “Yes, she knew Garrus from—from the hunt for Saren. So she had training in xeno-medicine.”

Solana’s mandibles pinched to her tiny face. “But not plastic surgery.”

Shepard frowned. “Is it really that bad?” Perhaps she had become inured to maiming during her time in the Alliance, but she didn’t think Garrus’ scarring was that bad, all things considered. Though, to be honest, she didn’t think of them that often in relation to his looks. He was Garrus, after all, not a collection of features.

Sol looked amused, however, in an expression uncannily like her brother’s. “What, you think we’re all just ugly cuttlebones?”

Shepard flinched at the slur and immediately interjected, “No! I never—"

Solana laughed, waving her bangles with merriment. “Come on. I’m teasing.” She then adopted a serious, confidential tone. “Well, honestly, Garrus was quite the catch. Good family, solid job, moving up quickly in the ranks…”

Shepard relaxed enough to take a sip of her iced tea. “Until I came along?” she added wryly.

Sol’s amusement returned. “Something like that.” She pushed her mug between them and leaned forward.  “I have to ask, and there’s a bet riding on this, so be honest. Did you offer or did he ask?”

“What, with Saren?”

“Yup.”

Shepard laughed briefly at Solana’s conspiratorial pose, but admitted, “It was both at the same time, really. He might have beat me to the punch, but I was about to offer.  I hope you didn’t have too many creds riding on it.”

Sol shook her head, taking a tentative sip of her hot drink. “Nah, just bragging rights. Dad always thought you offered, but I always insisted he asked.”

Shepard opened her mouth to ask about Castis when Solana went on, “Garrus is always saying he’s a bad turian, and he is—”

Shepard bristled. It was one thing for Garrus to say it, but even for his sister to—

“Defensive and protective. _Nice._ You really do fit well together. No, but really. I don’t mean it in a bad way. He’s just so relentless about justice. Not focusing on status quo, rising in the ranks, all those things. You know. He knew Saren was dirty and no amount of telling him to shut up and move on was ever going to work. Our mom was a bit like that— relentless, I mean, before…”

Shepard softened, leaning forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was ill until recently.”

Sol shrugged, but not unkindly. “Thanks. I guess you had bigger things to deal with.”

“No, it’s not that. He—Garrus didn’t tell me.”

Solana sighed, drawing a circle around her mug with a silver-painted talon. “He and mom were really close. When she was first diagnosed, he was up for the Spectre programme again. Your doing, I think? But, really, it wouldn’t have mattered what else was going on. He couldn’t deal with it. Well, I’m sure you know.”

Shepard stiffened, suddenly cautious.  “What do you mean?”

Sol didn’t look up from her tracings. “Well, you lost your parents at a young age and ended up in a gang. Not really different than running off to Omega and _starting_ a gang. A righteous gang, but a gang all the same.”

Shepard’s gaze was penetrating but Solana met it evenly. Eventually, she asked, “Garrus tell you which branch I’m in?”

“Nope,” replied Shepard with a smile.

Solana’s own mandibles flared. “Your little blue friend tip you off?”

Shepard looked thoroughly offended. “Sol, really, you’re hurting my feelings. Figured it out from the get-go. Your father would have sent a search and rescue if he didn’t know his son was, at least, somewhat safe and sound. And while he’s a decorated detective and great investigator, I somehow doubt he would have been able to dig up a location on his equally talented offspring’s location, especially when said son didn’t _want_ to be found.”

Sol gave her a long, appraising look before she chirped again. “You might just live up to half of what he says about you.”

Shepard had the grace to cast her lashes down modestly. “Oh, I doubt that.”

Solana seemed to be considering something as she took a contemplative drink from her cup. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Shepard agreed easily.

“Does it get easier?” Sol suddenly sounded very young.

There was a long silence as Shepard considered her answer, making stripes of the condensation on her glass “People will say that you won't remember her like this—and maybe you won't—but if you do, it won't be as bad as you think. Most of the time, if you have an image of her in your head, that's what you'll see. Sometimes, if you're out doing something, getting groceries, catching a vid, you'll think you see her, and sometimes it will hurt, but mostly it will be bittersweet. What hurts is when something good happens, or you hear or see something funny that she'd like and you go to call her, and remember she's gone. That's the one I've never gotten over.”

In the dismal yellow-green light, Shepard and Solana sipped their drinks in silence.


	27. Good Morning!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus watches the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her awesome beta work.

**Olor and Palaven, 2185**

 

The foggy, greenish-yellow light filtering through the window of his mother’s room only highlighted the surrealistic quality of the situation. 

The asari nurse— a maiden if her darting glances and violet blushes were any indication— was, for now, occupied with scanning the opaque fluid of the IV and the vital signs of the body it fed. He couldn’t reconcile the fragile, wasted body with the vibrant, strong mother he once knew.

The vid screen played quietly in the background as he accidentally caught the nurse’s eye. Her eager, hopeful smile made him think of Liara.

All at once, he understood the burden of a crush and how all that flattery can curdle into resentment. The exacting energy extended to be polite, kind, and mindful without leading on or toying with fragile affections truly was exhausting.

“—your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking story. Commander Shepard, lately discovered to be alive, will surrender herself to Systems Alliance authorities in approximately one standard hour. Shepard, the first human Spectre—"

Her picture flooded the screen before settling in the far right corner. It was an old one, the same one they persisted in using despite, or perhaps because of its resemblance to a mug shot. He’d seen it with little thought before Saren and several times more during those exhilarating months leading up the Battle of the Citadel where, admittedly, he looked for his own grim, grainy graduation picture to follow. Then, everywhere just before and quickly following her death, when it took on a lurid, seamy air, as though wholeheartedly adopting the criminal quality the picture evoked. He assumed it was taken long before Akuze because, though her chin was jerked up in defiance and her eyes met even the casual observer in an unwavering stare, there was a flicker of fear and a lick of self-doubt immortalised under all that bravado. It made her look all the more painfully young.

It made his heart ache.

“—is being charged with crimes against humanity under article seven, amendment four, of the Rome Statute. Ratified in 2182 CE, two years after the Systems Alliance raid on Torfan, this amendment clarified and extended the definition of ‘humanity’ to races out of Citadel Council Space. Previously, amendment three only recognised organic, sapient races in Citadel Space.  Commander Shepard first made a name for herself as the sole survivor of a deadly thresher maw attack on Akuze. As many of you remember, a fifty-two-person unit sent to investigate the colony when communication was lost. Nearly three years ago, Commander Shepard was named the first human Spectre. Shortly after, she exposed the rogue Spectre, Saren Arterius and defeated his geth army. Though the _Destiny Ascension_ was lost in the battle, she was considered the Saviour of the Citadel, only to be reported killed in action mere months later in another geth attack. Several weeks ago, sightings of the commander in the Terminus Systems, most notably on the infamously lawless station of Omega, reached a fever pitch. However, it was not until the Batarian Hegemony demanded her extradition to Khar'shan to be tried for genocide that the Alliance acknowledged Shepard was indeed alive. The Spectre is believed to have wilfully directed an asteroid into a mass relay that led to the complete annihilation of the Bahak System. It is estimated that ninety thousand batarians and two hundred and fifteen thousand slaves perished in the unprecedented attack.

Joining us now via sat feed is Marcia Cox, author of ‘The Nanocrystal Ceiling: Gender and Sexual Politics in the Systems Alliance’—"

A female human with too many glaringly white teeth and the kind of red hair that only came out of a bottle condescended to smile out of the screen. “Good morning.”

“And Lieutenant General Ajay Varghese, professor of ethics at the Royal College of Defence Studies.”

Another human, this time male with shiny black hair, wearing a grey suit and lavender shirt, yet somehow looking quite serious and scholarly for all that, said in an accent similar to Zaeed, but far more polished, “Thank you for inviting me.”

The newsreader, in her non-confrontational navy suit, rounded heels, and moderate voice asked the two talking heads to weigh in on the former hero’s fall from grace.

Ms. Cox did not think much of the disgraced commander, finally summing up her many and varied qualms. “She gives women in the Alliance a bad name. Fraternisation throughout her career— with her _alien_ crew, mutiny, association with Cerberus, murdering the Council, faking her own death. How can we trust her? Clearly, she’s guilty of genocide.”

Garrus did not like that woman.

Lieutenant General Varghese, however, politely scoffed at the slanderous claims of his fellow guest. “You can’t have it both ways. Either she’s a xenophobic butcher or the human equivalent to a Rapid Transit vehicle.”

The neutrally navy and blonde newsreader tried to break into the bickering. “Excuse me. Pardon me! We must—going now to Amita Qasid in Vancouver, we have word that Commander Shepard has landed and—"

Garrus sat up in the uncomfortable plastic-upholstered seat by his mother’s bed. Vancouver? Earth? What happened to Arcturus Station? Shepard has said she was going to surrender herself there.

“We are here at the Kim Campbell Aerospace Base, where, moments ago, a Normandy-class stealth frigate and her two-person crew have surrendered to authorities.”

_No. Oh, Spirits, no…_

“Amita, you said two?”

“Yes, that’s right, two. Flight Lieutenant Jeffrey Moreau has been taken into custody—"

_Crap_ , he thought dejectedly. There had been hope that Joker, having been previously grounded and then leaving the Alliance, would not be charged. Shepard hadn’t wanted him to go at all, but he had held firm. The _Normandy_ was his baby and he wasn’t going to leave her in the hands of strangers. What he hadn’t said aloud, though everyone understood, was that he didn’t intend to leave Shepard behind, in his mind, once again.

“Under what charges?” the newsreader asked.

“No charges were named just yet,” was the reply.

“Will we—?”

The live feed cut to Shepard, dressed for a climate controlled station, not a chilly landing pad on Earth. She was flanked by Anderson, his mouth in a grim line, and the largest human he had ever laid eyes on. Roughly the size of a prepubescent krogan, Garrus could only hope he was meant to protect Shepard and not just guard her. And then, a cacophony of voices rose all at once:

“Commander Shepard! Commander Shepard!”

It was a classic perp walk. He could remember gathering in front of the vid screen before dinner, jostling Sol for a better view, then bursting with pride when his father would appear, face stern but every step seeming to echo righteousness as he led the cuffed criminal past reporters. He never thought there might be another side to it, a march of shame making a sham of justice. Funny how the woman who taught him all about grey was being painted red by her own brethren.

The wind whipped her freshly-cut hair across her face, but she looked straight ahead, barely squinting, her jaw set and shoulders as square as they could be with her hands cuffed in front of her. She held herself rigid, as though determined not to shiver in the cold. Someone, Anderson by the looks of it, threw his overcoat across her shoulders, but she made no effort to hide her shackled wrists. The bulky human measured his steps to remain at her shoulder, eyes constantly scanning the crowd of reporters, but every so often looking back at her with concern.

The reporters, held back by a line of baby-faced marines in their brand new dress blues, were as eager as carrion spying fresh meat. Each squawked out their verbal assault, one voice rising over the other, then another, seeing who would hit bone first.

“Commander! Is it true that you staged your own death to defect to Cerberus?”

“Commander! Was it your idea to murder the batarians or were you ordered to by Cerberus?”

“Commander! Did you let the Council die under orders from Cerberus?”

“Shepard! Were you part of the Cerberus cell on Akuze? Is that why you survived?”

Her jaw tightened in that instant, so quickly and forcefully that he wouldn’t have been surprised if blood ran out of the corners of her mouth. A weak ray of sunlight broke out of the misty fog as a gust of wind kicked up. In an effort to keep her eyes from watering, she squinted and turned her face an increment, as though that was all she would allow herself, into the bulging shadow of her guard. It was in that moment he remembered a snippet of conversation between Alenko and Williams, just after Shepard was made Spectre.

_“She has cheekbones that could cut glass.”_

_“Yeah, and a tongue to match.”_

_“I, uh, don’t think she appreciated you equating animals and aliens in front of the new crew.”_

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

He came back with a jolt. “Mom, it’s me. It’s okay.” Garrus realised the nurse had left and pulled his chair closer to the bed. He took her hand soothingly, and though she relaxed a little, her eyes didn’t clear.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighed. Looking back to the vid screen and then away again, he answered honestly, “I don’t know.”

The nurse reappeared with another shy smile and he stood up. “I’ll be right back, Mom.”

As he stepped into the desolate visitors’ lounge, he remembered how much time Shepard had spent here during those stolen few days, on calls with her JAG rep. And then all at once, it hit him. She had been negotiating her surrender. Either she agreed to Vancouver to get those last few days with him and played it up for the cameras, or she was penalised for taking those days after the fact. Either way, the long, cold walk risked making her look more sympathetic to the public. Those who doubted her guilt would be swayed toward decrying her shoddy treatment. After all, she didn’t even have her own coat. With a fond flick of his mandibles, Garrus took a seat in the corner and pulled up his omni-tool. The stage lost a shining star when Shepard signed up for the Alliance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castis was busy packing when his comm-link trilled. He picked up almost as soon as the signal went through. It was as though he was waiting for the call.

“Dad?” There was a croak in his son’s sub-vocals, something he hadn’t heard since his fringe was still soft. Not even during that call on Omega. The galaxy could say what they liked about turians being hard and unmoving, but a parent wanting to protect and comfort their child was universal.

“She’s not mad, is she.” It wasn’t a question. Castis’ voice was laced with resignation. There wasn’t time to deny these Reaper creatures any longer. The time has come to face them.

His son laughed. A rich, genuine dual-vocal sound full of admiration and love. It made Castis feel a bit old. “Oh, no, she’s crazy.” A year ago, he would have remembered himself and apologised. Not anymore. He really was all grown up. “She’s telling the truth. She always has been.”

Amidst his wife’s scattered belongings, he sat down on the bed they had shared for thirty-seven years. He didn’t sigh, however. He felt oddly exhilarated, as though a new case had just been dropped in his lap. “How can I help?”


	28. Lovefool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion just like the vids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bioware might have created Adrien Victus, but [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) breathed life into him. Especial thanks for beta'ing this installment!
> 
> The following contains explicit sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **, 2186**

 

It was hours later, but she could still feel the pressure of his hand and the way his thumb rubbed all-too-brief circles into her palm, echoing a familiar pattern she hadn't felt in six long, lonely months. If she hadn't known better, she would have chalked it up to a surreptitious display of affection hidden in a professionally formal greeting. But the way his mandibles flared as he said her name told her otherwise, and when he walked away, swagger in his step, she wondered, not for the first time, just how much bio-readout that visor dispensed.

But then all hell broke loose again, and while taking down brutes might add to his ardour, she very much doubted the loss of Primarch Fedorian, windmilling politics, and having to engage in diplomacy helped keep that flame lit.

There was still too much to do and not enough time to get it done. So she branded a kiss to his mandible, and left him to tie up as many loose ends as he could before they left the system and pushed on through her own debriefings, comm calls, updates and reports. And EDI.

The last one was going to take a lot longer than the others.

But she still felt that warm pressure and teasing touch, newly combined with the familiar, acridly-sweet scent of spent heatsinks and over-warm metal that always clung to him and the honey-spiced taste of his skin.

It was late, enough so that even the privates at the doors of the war room were drooping. She stood abruptly, trying to quell the guilt she felt when they snapped to attention, and realised she said ‘at ease’ before they managed to get a ‘Ma’am’ out.

No one stopped her before she slid into the elevator, and during the painfully slow trip down, she fervently pleaded silently ‘please just let me get there in peace’.’

She thought perhaps the universe was being kind to her when she made it to the main battery unmolested. So much so that she didn't bother to wait for the doors to finish opening before she began archly, “So, do I have to sal—Oh!”

She swallowed the ‘fuck’ before it could escape her startled mouth when she saw not one but two turians turn toward her. Just as quickly as the marines upstairs snapped to attention, she stiffened into parade rest. “Primarch.”

Though turian expressions could be frustratingly difficult to read, there was no way to mistake the nearly identical looks of amusement Garrus and Victus sent her way.

She wondered, fleetingly, how much Victus knew of their relationship. It wasn't so much that she had any desire to hide it, though she did feel an air of decorum and professionalism were necessary now that the ship was under the Alliance once more and they were bunking leaders of various Council races. She was also aware of the fact that she had grown very lenient of the chain of command under Cerberus’ reign of the _Normandy_ and, though she was hardly the strictest officer in the Alliance, she did worry how their personal relationship and his role during that time with Cerberus might affect the Vakarians’ position in the hierarchy and Garrus’ reputation. She still remembered a particularly succinct op-ed written by an esteemed journalist on Palaven who, in damning her decision to focus as much firepower on protecting the Citadel and taking down Sovereign, thus losing the _Destiny Ascension_ and the Council, referred to her as a ‘rutting fleshbag whore.’ She found something amusing in the verbiage, as though his ire and disgust were not sufficiently vocalised in either the racial slur or slanderous noun and felt the need to punch it up with the disparaging descriptor.

“Commander,” Victus intoned, dipping his head in greeting, though she saw his mandibles flutter as he tried to quell a turian grin.

Garrus had no such scruples. “Shepard, need me for something?”

Well then, that answered her question. She smiled tightly but pleasantly, as she demurred on script, “It can wait for a bit. I should go.”

“Commander,” Victus rejoined as she began to turn, “Surely if it was important enough to inquire after at such a late hour,” she smiled, tighter still, as his subvocals rumbled with suppressed laughter, “it cannot wait.”

She felt distinctly like a mouse being toyed with by two deceptively sweet, but heavily clawed kittens. It should have bothered her far more than it did, but that was something she could discuss with a psychiatrist holding astronomically high clearance after the war. She tried not to think ‘if we win,’ not with the way James and Steve and Sam looked at her.

She always heeded her late father’s advice to ‘play the game.’ It was how much she enjoyed playing that sometimes caught her by surprise. Fuck decorum. “It's just there's something,” she gestured vaguely with her first two fingers, indicting nothing at all, “that I can't quite reach.”

“Really,” Victus drawled, appraising Garrus who had suddenly gone quite still.

“Yeah,” she sighed with a half-smile, as though it weren't very important at all. Aware that Garrus was staring at her hand, she curled those fingers.  “I just can't quite get it off—"

“Shepard,” Garrus cut in, a reedy croak at odds with a very deep rumble.

“Yes, Garrus?” She tilted her head with a innocent, toothless smile.

Victus spoke before Garrus could will his subvocals into submission and reply, “I assume it is something you missed?”

“Oh,” she debated, lowering her hand to negligently run her fingernails over her collarbone, “I guess you could say that.”

Neither Shepard nor Victus missed how Garrus watched her fingers or how his own twitched. “Well then, I suggest you help the Commander.”

It was quite possibly the only order Garrus ever jumped to accept. But six months advancing in the hierarchy made him pause. “Ah, Vict—Primarch—”

“I'll just finish up here,” Victus indicted whatever data they had been debating at the terminal.

“Right. Excuse us, Primarch,” Garrus said, suddenly stiff.

“Primarch,” echoed Shepard.

“Of course,” Victus said to Garrus. To Shepard, he nodded once more. “Commander.”

They walked to the elevator like strangers, and didn't look at each other during the excruciatingly slow ride, but the moment the doors opened, he picked her up entirely off the ground and pushed her up against the first available vertical surface so quickly that her vision spun. His mouth was on hers before it came back into focus, but it didn't matter because she closed her eyes, eagerly trying to match the oxygen-depriving dalliance of tongues and teeth that equated turian kisses.

Her fingers dug into the soft hide under his fringe and he broke away, breathless, only to resume his assault down her jaw and throat. “That was cruel,” he nipped his way down her neck, “and evil.” He stopped talking long enough to dip his tongue in the hollow of her throat.

She tightened her legs around his waist, hands meeting armour as she went from his fringe to his cowl. “So pay me back,” she breathed, tugging insistently at the clasps at his collar.

He growled— actually growled into her chest, pushing her jacket off and pulling at her shirt. The vibration caused the pooling warmth in her core to spread and she bucked against his painfully armoured hips with a frustrated mewl.

“Why are you wearing so much clothing?” he demanded, having successfully removed her jacket and top only to be blockaded once more by her bra.

She batted his hands away to unsecure the much easier clasp and retorted, “Me? You're the one in armour.” 

“You know what they say. Good things come to those who wait.”

As she arched to reach behind herself, his talons ran down over each exposed rib to still at her waist. “Wait. Stop.”

She looked up, over his head, expecting to see half the crew watching them from the elevator, but she only saw the closed doors. It was only then she realised he was holding her up mostly with his hips and sheer force of will. “Oh.”

He huffed out a laugh at her startlement and she shivered, “No, but we should take this inside.”

Grudgingly, she climbed down from her heady position, his hands holding her steady until she was on her feet. It was only a few feet to the door, but he didn't let her loose until she said, “Wait, my clothes.”

He laughed again, still breathless, pulling up the interface to unlock the door. “What's the—?”

“What's the what?” She asked, scooping up her shirt and jacket. He was staring, seemingly transfixed by the bending curve of her waist. She straightened up and he still didn't look away.

“The passcode,” he replied, his voice at opposite ends of deep and high once more.

She smirked and deliberately sauntered toward him. She stood on tiptoe, though she still couldn't reach his aural canal, and whispered, “Your birthday.”

It was his turn to shiver, and he couldn't pull her inside the room fast enough. “That's cute,” he began, letting her pry open the seals of his armour as he divested her of the unclasped bra. Her clothing and his armour littered the short flight of stairs. “But entirely unsafe.” He caught the rosy peak of one breast between his mouth plates, tasting it as her hands faltered and skid over his remaining armour. She bowed into him, sighing his name, forgetting momentarily about his hardsuit to dig her fingers underneath his fringe once more.

She was never single-minded for long, and though he groaned in relief when the last of his armour fell away, he took her hands in his when she began to stroke his heavy length through his straining undersuit.

“Not yet.”

She met his eyes breathlessly, tugging on his grip but not pulling her hands out of it, instead raising his to her face. He loosed his hold to stroke her cheekbones with his thumbs, but, holding his gaze, she captured his wrists and pulled each glove off with her teeth. He stared back, transfixed, until she took one of his bared talons into her mouth and began to suck.

The noise that he made was guttural with need and though he was normally extremely mindful of both delicate cloth and fragile skin, he stripped her bear with a frantic swiftness that left them both breathless.

She was thinner than the last time he saw her like this and the jutting bones seemed to excite him more.  Urging her to lie back on the bed behind them, he ran his talons and tongue from breast to belly, taking time over the ladders of her ribs and the jutting hollows of her hips. Her legs fell open, as if of their own accord, because she was still tugging insistently at the broad neck of his undersuit, when her fingers relaxed enough from fisting the stretchy fabric. “Take it off,” she whispered in that breathy, husky voice he only heard when they were alone like this.

He ignored her request to travel lower, scoring faint pink lines lightly down her hips and thighs, until she was splayed out before him, filling his senses with her heady arousal. The pads of his fingers coasted over the impossibly soft skin of her inner thighs before stroking the glistening folds.

She gasped softly, arching against his hands.

“You’re so wet,” he marvelled, his hot breath purposely scattering over her sex.

She took in another sharp breath, then whispered, “I've been like that since Menae.”

He pressed his face into the trembling flesh of her thigh with a groan. She could feel the need radiating off of him, but he seemed determined to delay pleasure.  “Nervous?”

She shook her head, though he didn't see it. Her reply was more audible with need than volume.  “Anticipation.”

The words had barely left her mouth before he delved into her. She was never loud, but made soft little noises until her legs tightened around him and her muscles clenched spasmodically. Then, she sighed his name, bracketed with pleas.

He rose over her then, but she pulled herself up after a minute, yanking his suit down with force. Her hands, on his naked cowl, pressed him down to her and she licked and sucked at his ruined mandible until he threw his head back, panting. Inexorable, she dragged her blunt teeth down his throat and pressed her mouth against the soft skin behind his mandible. “I want you inside me.”

The weight of him over her, around her, filling her, made her feel like she was finally home.  He took a long, shaky breath, as though willing himself not to move, but she hadn't loosened her embrace or moved her mouth from that soft spot. “Please, Garrus. Please.”

He didn’t last long inside her, but she didn’t mind. She felt oddly flattered by it; that he missed and longed for her as much as she did for him. His mandibles fluttered in embarrassment above her, so she drew him down and kissed him, slow and long.

He pressed his forehead against hers and let out such a contented, relieved sigh that she felt buoyed by his solace. Though he never said the exact words; had fumbled over such sentiments, she knew he loved her. And though his world and hers were burning at that moment, she never felt safer than  in his arms.

“I missed you.”

He held her close, as though she might slip through his grasp, breathing in her hair. “Me or this?” he teased.

She smiled into his keelbone. “Well, if I had to choose between mind-blowing sex or just you… it would always be you.”

His breath caught with a click, as it did when she made it clear how much she loved him. His talons tangled in her hair and he gave a light tug so that she would look up at him.  “Lucky for you, you don't have to.”

She slanted her mouth against his in a long, languid kiss. “I am very,” she moved her mouth to his mandible, “very,” and then his neck, “very lucky.”

“I think you're about to get luckier.”


	29. She Bangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James tells Steve a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her amazing beta work.

**_Normandy SR-2_ ** **, 2186**

“I’m using your bag, Jimmy. Hi Steve.” Shepard had breezed into the cargo bay, already taping her hands. She was still in her dress blues, no doubt having come straight from her conference with Wrex, Primarch Victus, and Dalatrass Linron.

“Ma’am,” Steve greeted her, clearly battling the urge to salute as well. Shepard didn’t stand on ceremony and he was still getting used to the relaxed atmosphere on her ship.

“Okay,” said Vega easily, then leaned his bulk against Steve’s console and whistled low. “Oh man. She's _pissed.”_

Steve didn’t even flick his gaze toward Vega. “How can you tell?”

James crossed his arms, making a show of his impressive musculature. “Practically lived with her for six months, didn't I?”

Steve rolled his eyes. He was clearly used to this sort of talk. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Vega, however, looked over his shoulder at the commander, where she was now in rolled-up shirtsleeves, pummelling the stuffing out of his bag.  He cocked his head sideways, taking on a conspiratorial tone. “No, really, man. She only lost it once.”

Steve didn’t move, but he also had a clearer view of Shepard blowing off some serious steam. As he entered the dalatrass’ latest request into the system, he asked out of the side out of his mouth, “What happened?”

Vega made a show of hesitation that quickly dissipated. “Well… She was supposed to be under a news blackout, y'know?”

Steve’s mouth curled up. “But you'd fill her in.”

“Hey man, _you_ try saying no to her. Anyway, nothing crucial, but this one day, like ten days before the Reapers knocked on our door, I told her that Olor was hit and she looked like La Lloronora. All white—well, grey, and doing that clenchy thing with her hands. Only day she didn't take her full three hours.” Shepard was given three hours yard time per day during her time in Vancouver, in which she and James suffered the brutally cold offshore winds so she might have some fresh air, daylight, and exercise.

Steve frowned at something on his screen. “Why was that so upsetting?”

“Well, I didn't know at the time, but…” Again, James looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “Her and Scars… _you know.”_

Steve scoffed impatiently. _“Everyone_ knows that.”

Vega straightened up a little, looking earnestly at Steve. “ _Now._ But it wasn't like she was wearing a ‘Turians Do It Better’ t-shirt, y’know what I'm sayin’?”

With a sigh of enduring patience, Steve enjoined, “What does that have to do with it?”

Vega put up his thick hands in placation. “Chill, man, I'm getting there. So she looked awful and put in a request to speak to Anderson. And when I told her his assistant said it could take a few days, she smiled at me like she was gonna put a knife through my ribs and said, ‘Jimmy, you tell her Commander Shepard’s cashing in her chips.’”

Steve didn’t look away from his screen, but his brow furrowed. “What'd that mean?”

Having finally caught Cortez’s attention, James relaxed against the console again. “Fuck if I know, but it got Anderson down right away, I can tell you that. And she didn't even salute him. Just said, ‘I need to get a message out.’”

Steve looked between his screen and Shepard, sweating laboriously over the punching bag. He lowered his voice. “I thought she was dark?”

“She _was._ That's why she wanted to talk to him. And he starts telling her that he can't, it'll look bad, there's nothing he can do. And fuck, Esteban…” Vega trailed off with a significant look.

Steve’s patience fractured as he demanded in exasperation, “ _What?_ ”

Vega crossed his arms again and leaned in to Steve’s personal space. “She lost it. She started out all calm and said, ‘When you didn't tell me you had a history with Saren, I said nothing.’”

Steve made a gallant effort to still look at his screen, but he inhaled sharply. “Oh man.”

Vega continued with relish, “Yeah. It gets better. ‘When you didn't tell me you were a _Spectre_ , I said nothing.’”

Steve made a quiet sound, like he was swallowing a profanity.

James’ eyes danced with the kind of glee sharing a juicy piece of gossip begets. “Oh yeah. ‘When you told me to steal the _Normandy,_ I did it. When everyone blamed me for the _Destiny Ascension_ , I took responsibility. When the new Council and Alliance said it was geth and I was crazy, I took that mission to Alchera and died.’”

Steve peered anxiously over the console lest they be overheard. “Christ.”

“Just wait. ‘When you knew they were cobbling me back together, you did nothing. When I asked you were my crew was, you wouldn't tell me. When I was disavowed as a fucking lunatic, you said nothing. When you and Hackett pulled your support, I said nothing. When you both asked me to jump through hoops, I asked how high. When you sent me to help Kahlee, I went running. When Hackett sent me to Bahak, I endangered my fucking crew. I turned myself in so you guys could look good. I followed every single fucking bad order since day fucking one and have asked nothing in return. I'm sitting under house arrest in this godforsaken excuse for a city and the one time— the one fucking time I ask a favour, it's too fucking difficult? You wanna know what's going to be difficult? When _I_ start saying no. When I testify against all of this. When I start calling the press. You think I'm a good little girl? You don't know me at all.’”

Steve swallowed and gave up every last pretence of working. The rhythmic thumping of the bag filled the cargo bay. Finally, he asked quietly, “So what happened?”

With the satisfaction of having captivated his audience, James looked Steve square in the eye. “He walked out.”

Steve’s own grew round. “What—I mean, did she scream or cry—?”

Vega shook his head solemnly. “No, like I said, it was like scary voodoo shit, man. Looked like she was carved out of stone. Sat there for hours. Refused to eat. Wouldn't move. Fuckin’ stubborn and _strong._ You forget all that when she's all smiling and friendly, y’know.”

“So then what?”

“Well, remember Lucinda, the tech, with the—" James made a gesture of holding two melons in his hands.

Steve rolled his eyes and resigned himself back to his work. “Yes,” he said rather contemptuously.

Vega folded his arms against his massive chest once more. “Well, she said her friend, the one with the ‘nice personality’ and ‘great sense of humour’ could help me out. If I took her out for drinks.”

A patronising smile flickered over Steve’s face. “So you took one for the team?”

Vega cracked his neck to avoid looking sheepish. “Yeah, well, turns out she was a nice girl. We went out a few times.”

Steve shook his head in amusement. “So what did the message say?”

Vega suddenly looked at his scuffed boots, an expression of sympathetic sorrow shadowing his face. “That's the worst part. It just said ‘I'm so sorry about your mother.’”

Steve’s mouth fell open as he turned to Vega. “That's it? That's what they refused to send?”

“Fuck, Esteban, they never even asked.”


	30. I'll Be Wearing Your Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard decorate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta work!
> 
> Have you seen the new artwork? Check out [Beth Ad Astra's](https://bethadastra-art.tumblr.com/) amazing art for chapter 17.

**_Normandy SR-2,_ ** **2186**

Shepard was leaning into the bathroom, arms braced on either side of the jamb, gleefully impatient; the way she got when they discovered a particularly good cache of equipment or supplies and gave the encryption cracking up to him or Tali.

Garrus arranged the pots and brushes on the counter with the same skilled, confident movements he used when cleaning his rifle. “It’s not that exciting.”

Tattoos were the most common, permanent way to receive colony marks, but they still faded. Vain or patriotic turians generally touched them up on a biannual basis, to keep the colours fresh. Others simply got around to it, eventually, or scheduled it at a certain, reoccurring point, much like human males and haircuts. Turians who lived away from such accommodations, or were ambivalent to their marks, or were self-professed bad specimens of their species often used a mordant face paint— easy, effortless, if potentially messy—  to refresh their tattoos.

“It is for me. I’ve never seen it before.”

She looked adorable, he thought, vivacious and eager. He tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, though his subvocals gave him away. “It’s very caustic, you know,” he put in, tapping one of the jars with the brush. “It’ll burn right through your skin.”

“How long does it take to set?”

“About an entire day cycle.” He said this gravely, though his eyes were mischievous when they caught hers in the mirror.

She straightened away from the door, cupping one hand against his steam-softened mandible so that he turned to her. “A whole day, huh?”

He dropped the brush on the counter and circled her waist instead. “Think you can manage it?”

She stood on tiptoe, kissing the vertical blue and white stripe along his nasal plate, the diagonal across his left mandible, the marred, jagged edges on his right. “I’ll tide you over.”

The ensuing kiss left them both breathless, but she was the first to give him a playful shove. “Come on.”

He grumbled at her with a flick of his mandibles, resigning himself to the task. As he swiped his plates with the primer, he watched her settle against the jamb once more, arms folded against her chest. He wondered briefly, inherently the detective, at her closed off body language, but then she spoke.

“I️ used to love to watch my dad shave.”

She did this more often now, dropping little, off-hand comments of her previously shuttered life. He thought, maybe, it had to do with the loss of his own mother, that she felt he could understand it now. Or maybe she just felt that safe with him. He never asked, not wanting to draw attention to her new forthrightness, and she never thought to enlighten him.

He couldn’t speak now without chancing harsh chemicals in his mouth, so he met her eyes in the mirror to show her he was listening as he washed the solvent off his hands.

She returned it with a fleeting smile.

He could probably do it with his eyes closed, but for Shepard’s benefit, he put on a bit of a show. First, he dipped the wider brush into the bright cobalt paint, then tilted the left side of his face toward the mirror and deftly drew a fresh stripe over the fading one, relishing the familiar burn the way a human might enjoy a deep breath on a cold day.

A firmer smile curved her mouth at his preening, but mostly she looked enchanted by the process. He had to occupy his gaze with the paint and brushes lest her infectious humour cause him to flare his mandibles in a returning grin and ruin the job.

His nasal plates were painted with a similar, precise flourish, but when he turned his right side to the mirror, he faltered.

Shepard was there, like she was always there, as heedless to the acidic paints as she was to bullets if he was pinned down. She squeezed his shoulder and pressed a kiss to the back of his cowl. “Do you want me to do it?”

He begun to shake his head without considering it, but then she added, “I’m good at staying in the lines.”

It was so true, figuratively to her moral compass, and so false in relation to her driving that he made a choked sound, trying not to move his face as he laughed. She had the grace to look abashed. “Well, most of the time.”

He stuck the brush in the pot, gave her an admonishing little look that he hoped reminded her to be careful, and turned to face her.

It was uncanny, the way she surveyed his face for a moment. It was the exact same look she got before she charged into a merc base. Steely determination underscored with a hint of trepidation. Well, he thought to himself as she wiped the excess paint off the brush on the lip of the jar and motioned for him to turn his face away from her, there wasn’t much worse she could do to the damaged plates.

Yet there was no hesitation as he felt the sweeping burn of cold, wet paint against his scarred mandible, or in the firm squeeze she gave his hand, as soon as she stuck the brush back in the jar, just as the burn became searing.

He didn’t realise how hard he gripped her hand until he relaxed the hold and she immediately flexed it. He gave a rueful shrug and head-tilt, but she simply waved it off. “Go take a look.”

He turned back to the mirror and examined the right side of his face. The new line was true, he had never doubted it would be, but the pocked and cratered skin still showed through the paint, like ruts and potholes on a paved road.

Shepard wrapped her arms just above his trim waist and leaned her head against the back of his cowl. “I️ never meant it. I️ was so relieved— relieved is the wrong word. I️ was so fucking overcome when I️ saw you were going to be okay that my brain just short-circuited. I’d blame Lawson and Cerberus, but it was all me. Between almost hugging you in the middle of a firefight and then almost _losing_ you…” She took a shaky breath. “I️ wanted to kiss you.”

His hands crossed over hers, somewhat awkwardly to a casual observer because his reach was so much longer than hers, though he was not uncomfortable. “So, you insulted me instead.” His vocals were careful, not because he was actually offended, but because the paint was still drying.

Her brief laugh was warm across his back. “Yeah.”

His mandibles twitched in an experimental smile. “You always were a flirt.”

Shepard grinned against his cowl. “Says the guy who told me some women find scars attractive.”

Garrus rubbed his hand up her arm soothingly. “By ‘some women,’ I️ meant you, of course.”

She laughed again, harder this time, straightening away from him so she could face him in the mirror. “You called me a krogan!”

With the paint mostly dried, Garrus felt free to flare his mandibles in a cocky grin. “To be fair, you had just called me ugly. Krogan was the least insulting thing I️ could have said.”

Shepard narrowed her eyes and retorted with absolutely no heat at all, “Ass.”

He moved to start opening the smaller jar with optic white paint, keeping a smug, cheeky trill in his vocals. “You love it.”

“I️ do. And, you know, there are other places I️ could kiss you besides your face.” She then proceeded to wholeheartedly distract him by pressing soft, lazy kisses along the edge of his cowl.

Garrus was only wearing a towel. Shepard was fully dressed for the day. The prospect of what could quickly transpire had him abandon the paint with a purr. “Oh, really?”

She hummed a confirmation against his plated skin, but he still shivered as though she was pressed against his thinner hide. Her fingers traced lazy lines down his arms. “But, right after you finish up, I️ have to go over requisition orders with Steve and see if we have any surplus to donate to the refugees.”

Garrus snapped his head sideways to send a pained glare her way, but he was more sarcastic than angry. “You always leave me in a great place to go back to work.”

Shepard flashed him a brilliant, teasing grin. “You love it.”

He sighed, as though admitting defeat, once more applying himself to the painting process with an air of resignation. “I️ do.”

Their faces, alight with fond amusement, met in the mirror once more.


	31. Raspberry Swirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus runs into an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her amazing beta work!

**The Citadel, 2186**

 

"Vakarian? Garrus Vakarian? How the hell are you, man?"

Garrus and Shepard had just arrived in Bay E28. He was to check in on ration supplies, and she was on her way to speak to the volus ambassador. They both turned to see a tan-plated turian with white markings above his tawny eyes and below his mouth waving Garrus down.

The strange turian with widely flaring mandibles and a jocular attitude was clearly no stranger to Garrus. They clapped each other on the shoulders in species-crossing masculine exuberance. “Fidelus Veselin? Hey, been a long time."

The idea that a turian equivalent of a frat boy existed at all, cheerful and exuberant in the wake of war, disease, hunger, and despair, made Shepard want to fight—and win—all the more. The galaxy touted this idea that each race was so very different; incompatible, intolerant, and inflexible. But Shepard, incongruously idealistic for someone who not only died, but had a mind full of death, always found the common ground.

Veselin turned to Shepard after the two turians ceased pounding each other’s armour in greeting. "So you're the famous Commander Shepard, huh? This guy could not shut up about you! It was all 'Shepard this' and 'Shepard that' and 'you had to see her HMWSR X custom rifle'."

Shepard leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms to eye Garrus, but even she felt her mouth turn up. “I take it you know each other from C-Sec?”

Veselin answered while Garrus sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “C-Sec Academy, actually. We go way back.”

Garrus added modestly, “We’ve kept in touch over the years.” Then, to his friend, he said, “I haven’t seen you since ’84, though.”

Veselin still had a turian grin on his face. “Oh, I stayed on at C-Sec till this shit started up. Couldn’t let you have all the glory. I rejoined my old unit on Palaven. Lieutenant First Class Veselin, at your service.” To punctuate this, he bowed his head low to Shepard, who felt herself smothering a grin.

He wasn’t done, however, adding, "Though, it's funny, y'know. Vakarian serving with you all these years. We had bets going how long he'd last on a human ship, back at C-Sec."

Beside her, Garrus froze, as though if he didn’t move, he might disappear. Shepard raised a curious brow. “Really?" She drew the word out. "Why's that?"

Garrus shot her a quelling glare. "Veselin—" he began warningly.

Veselin either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His cheerful, mandible-spread grin punctuated his words. "Naw, c'mon, it's a great story. See, we're all waiting for our posts to come out—this is back at Academy— and we're just at each other's throats. I mean, even sparring wasn't helping."

"Huh,” was all Shepard said, but Garrus glowered at her. She flashed the two a brilliant smile.

Veselin continued, completely unperturbed, "I know, right? So our FTO is like, we should go party."

"Sure. Makes sense,” Shepard said seriously, though her eyes were dancing merrily.

"So we're at this awesome club. What was the name of it, Vakarian?"

Garrus seemed resigned to his fate. "Blue Moons,” he supplied, dully.

Shepard actually had to put a hand to her mouth and disguise her laugh as a cough. "Sorry, it's a little dusty around here."

Veselin waved off her apology. "No worries. So yeah, we're at Blue Moons and it was just amazing. Saturos, that was our FTO, paid in advance—"

"Sounds like a nice guy,” Shepard interjected, the face of solemnity. She could feel Garrus’ brilliant eyes burning a hole through her. She smiled at him, undisturbed.

Veselin noticed none of this. "Oh yeah, totally. But this guy right here—" He jostled Garrus, who made a helpless noise,  “wouldn't have a go! Can you believe that?"

"Actually—" Garrus began weakly, but Veselin continued on mirthfully.

"He said, 'If I wanted to be mind-fucked, I'd go after Lysi.' She was this absolute demon on the field, but not so much in the bunk. Really surprising. Not like Rena, right Vakarian? She was—"

Much too loudly and forcefully for the overcrowded space, Garrus’ stentorian dual-tones cut in, "Don't you have a meeting to go to?" He looked at Shepard rather desperately, as though his life depended on her leaving.

Suddenly, Shepard felt very guilty. Garrus could take a teasing, as she very well knew, but he looked downright miserable at this point. The holding area was an awful place to be for any race, but right now, the turian population was having the worst of it. Dextro supplies were always too scarce and in too much demand. Morale, always a point of pride for the turian race, was low and sinking still. Every media report brought a new list of casualties and horror stories. He didn't have to come down here every time they docked. He didn't have to joke with the injured, bargain with the so-called ‘Reaper runners' for supplies out of his own credit account, or be sure to always have some dextro chocolate on hand for the owlish little fledgling who would inevitably ask if that was a real custom modified Kuwashii visor and could they look through it, please? Just once? But for all his declarations of being a 'bad turian', he was truly the best man she knew.

Abashed, Shepard relented, the humorous tilt to her mouth disappearing and the merry light in her eyes dimmed. "You're right. I should go.” She offered her arm to Veselin, intending to clasp forearms, as turians did. “It was very nice to meet you, Lieutenant."

But he shook her hand warmly instead. "You too, ma'am." Then, as though all those years in the Hierarchy came flooding back, he assumed parade rest.

It was then that it happened, though she didn't realise it yet. She half-turned to Garrus, reached out and asked, somewhat rhetorically, "See you later?"

There was deafening silence. A gaping, awful, absence of sound.

Her hand was on his waist. And it seemed that every eye on that particular block was fixated on her too-smooth, excessively appendaged hand.

Shepard was a very modest person, especially given her current position in the galaxy. She didn't think she was the strongest solider, best shot, or greatest strategist. However, she did know she was a good diplomat and she prided herself on having learned a great deal more about each races' customs, cultures, and beliefs than the average Alliance plenipotentiary. To her, this gaffe was akin to Tali being unable to hack a safe or Liara failing to remember what happened on this day in prothean history. So much for the 'Great Diplomat'. She might as well just have stuck her tongue down his throat.

Which was a very adventitious thought for her to have at that moment. Or perhaps couples, however incompetently covert, can read each other’s minds, because she found herself quite literally bent over backwards in his arms, just like that.

When two perfectionists come together, things that hadn't seemed very important to one party became crucial for the other to master. Dual-chirality was, fortuitously for them, a mere formality and easily remedied. Nonetheless, Shepard was quite aware that there were a few things turian girls could do that she simply could not, but she damn well tried her best to make up for it in other ways.  (One specific way very often came to pass.) So if he could live without talons and teeth, she could very happily live without kissing. Even so, she let her nails grow just past Alliance regulations while Garrus filed down his talons and, with the same determination he put to perfecting the accuracy of the Thanix cannon, set out to conquer the art of kissing.

It took a lot of practice and involved a lot less mouth and a lot more tongue.

Shepard did not mind at all.

Thus, kissing a turian—or, rather, kissing Garrus, as Shepard had no other experiences to compare, was very much like a coming attraction before a vid. A filthy Fornax vid. It left her weak in the knees, short of breath, and aching everywhere else.

And the bastard knew it.

She really hoped Vega wasn't losing his shirt at poker again. She'd never live this down.

He very gently, and very deliberately, set her to her feet, mandibles flared crookedly in a smirk. "So, dinner?"

"Uh-huh,” she replied as dreamily as a teen after her first kiss.

"Your meeting...?" His entire body exuded self-satisfaction at her dazed countenance. 

"Oh,” she said stupidly, then snapped to alertness. “Oh! Right! Because I'm in a great place to talk to the volus ambassador right now."

Garrus’ sharp laugh echoed through the bay.

Shepard managed to scrape together enough wherewithal to square her shoulders and assume a more serious, if not terribly sober face. Having successfully made it about a dozen steps with an air of authority, she thought she was in the clear.

Garrus wasn’t done with her. "I was thinking I'd definitely like to eat out tonight.”

She tripped, cursing under her breath. Without turning around, she took a moment to steady herself, and choked out, “You're paying."

"Don't I always?" he called back smugly.

She turned and pointed a finger at him. “Multiple times!"

"Don't I always?" he repeated, cocky mandibles leering.

Shepard thought she was going to kill him... after she got her just desserts. Still, the volus ambassador awaited before any of that could happen. She tried to glare at Garrus, but all she could manage was an exasperated grin. She spun on her heels and headed toward the nearest rapid transit hub to hail a cab.

From afar, she heard the sounds of armour being slapped. "Vakarian, you son of a varren! I didn't know you had it in you!"


	32. Suede

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus hears some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especial thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for all her amazing beta work!
> 
> This chapter contains explicit sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

**_Normandy SR-2,_ ** **2186**

 

He leaned against his elbows, head bowed.

The door cycled opened. He realised it must be past a meal or shift change. He didn't look up. 

“Garrus?”

“I got through to my dad. I was telling them to leave. The call got cut off.”

She squeezed his shoulder, waiting for him to continue.

“Sol… she broke her leg.”

Shepard knew what leg injuries meant for turians. Combined with the lack of adequate medical attention and the memory of Solana’s graceful, diminutive physique, it was as though he could hear Shepard’s heart break in her throat. She pressed her face against his cowl, heedless of armour. “Oh, Garrus. I’m so sorry.”

He could see ten-year-old Sol at her dance recital, gliding across the stage. Her slim, delicate form engulfed in her first set of armour for boot camp, her mandibles tight in frustration. Her quick, graceful movements.  He thought of her never dancing again, never flicking her hands when she spoke or her jaunty, rhythmic step.

He didn’t want to think. He wanted to be obliterated in that moment. No sight or sound or thought. He certainly didn’t want to feel anything at all.

The weight of Shepard’s comforting was suddenly too much to bear. He moved swiftly, crushing her against him, devouring her mouth, her ear, her throat.

She responded so warmly, so enthusiastically, that he thought nothing of backing her up against his console, of sliding his hands to her pants, of—

She caught his hands gently and pulled away, breathless. “Just give me two hours.”

She was always so open, so willing. Suddenly, he felt insurmountably selfish. Worlds were burning, families decimated, and they were the line between the Reapers and total annihilation. How could he think only of himself, of his despair, when others had lost so much more?

He looked away from her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

She cupped his mandibles between her hands. “You did nothing wrong. Just give me two hours to finish up some things and then come upstairs.”

He still couldn’t look at her. “You don’t have to—"

Tenderly, she cut him off by pulling him down to press her forehead against his. “I _want_ to. Two hours, okay?”

He closed his eyes and sighed against her. “Okay.”

One hour and fifty-three minutes later, he entered the passcode to the captain’s quarters, which was still his birthday, much to his great dismay.  Patience was never his strong suit. He paused before entering, just in case Shepard was on the vid comm, but her terminal was already asleep.

She stood by the bed in a worn grey tee shirt, hastily scrawling her signature on a datapad with her forefinger. “Three more to go and then I’m all yours.”

Though he had done it countless times in the past, it felt presumptuous to start unlatching his tunic as he mounted the stairs. But the sight of her bare thighs and a hint of an equally unclothed ass as she shifted her weight shook his reservations.  “Take your time. I’ll just admire the view.”

 She smirked and set the datapad down on her nightstand. He gestured to her ratty grey t-shirt as he tossed his tunic on the table.  “Is that the same one?”

She moved so quickly, and he _was_ distracted, that all he saw was a flash of white flesh before the scent of Shepard engulfed him and obstructed his view.

“You tell me.”

He batted the shirt from his face, taking his visor off with it. She was still wearing the smirk, and absolutely nothing else. Garrus immediately forgot any retort he had been planning in favour of removing the rest of his clothing as quickly as possible.  As he struggled to remove his boots and pants in his haste, Shepard failed to smother a brief laugh.  He gave them one last jerk and tossed the mess to the side, eager to advance.   She had a rather fond smile on her face just before he cupped her bare ass. She finally had forgone underwear. “I see you finally took my advice.”

She flicked a look up at him from under her lashes, ever-so-lightly sweeping her fingers up and down the sides of his waist. “I haven’t sat down for half an hour. I knew you’d be early.”

Her feather-light touches were maddening, and he told her so by giving her round cheeks a firm squeeze. “You should have told me sooner,” he admonished into her neck, nipping a line to her collarbone. “I can fix that.”

But though he tried to manoeuvre her onto the bed, Shepard eluded him without pausing in her caresses or pulling away from his clever tongue. “Let me take care of you.”

From the start of their physical relationship, Garrus had been the more dominant partner in their trysts. This wasn’t to say that Shepard was by any means passive in their escapades, or that the balance never shifted. It merely meant that Garrus, who found control an elusive mistress in life, enjoyed that it was easy to obtain and maintain behind closed doors with Shepard. And she, who was asked to make soul-crushing, universally impactive decisions on a daily basis, rather liked someone else taking the burden and making it so very pleasurable at the same time. More than that, at this moment above all others, Garrus thought he needed to be in that role. He wanted to lose himself in her, preferably as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

So he redoubled his efforts, tracing the path from her collarbone to the hollow of her throat with his tongue while his hands left her curves behind to feel the jutting bones of her hips and the damp heat between them.

Shepard was not recruited to the Special Tasks and Reconnaissance branch because of her N7 ranking, combat ability, or brute strength. It was her relentless drive to survive and the innate ability to talk herself or others in or out or between any situation, anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances. She put a hand on either mandible and drew his face back up to hers. “Let me take care of you.”

His hands stilled on her hips and he closed his eyes as he leaned his forehead against hers. He suddenly felt exhausted. “I just want everything to stop for a little while. I don’t want to think, Shepard.”

He felt her lips brush against his before they moved lightly to his neck. “Let me take care of you,” she said again. “Trust me.”

He felt as though she wove a spell over him with her soft words and softer lips and fingers. It suddenly all seemed so simple now, so easy to let her take over. His trust in her was as paramount as his love for her. If he asked her for help, she gave it implicitly, even if it didn’t appear the way he originally envisioned it to be. “Always,” he rumbled into her hair, letting the sensation of her ministrations wash over him.

Her deft fingers sought the soft, sensitive skin underneath his fringe as she slowly worked her mouth across his mandibles and neck and down against his throat once more. “If you don’t like it, or you need something more, or any reason at all, you stop me and tell me.”

It was ridiculous, but he felt as if he spoke, the magic she cast would shatter. He nodded instead, giving himself up to her attentions but for rhythmic circles he continued to rub against her hips with his thumbs.

He let her guide him back onto the bed, finally dropping his hands away as she hovered over him. He watched her bones and muscle slide beneath her skin as she arranged the pillows to accommodate his fringe, letting the sight be enough to entice his desire rather than sating it with touch. As he settled against the cushions, Shepard stroked his colony markings and smiled.

It was his favourite smile. The incorrigible corner, upturned, like a spilled secret she shared only with him. The smile that led him here. Not Saren, or Omega, or the Reapers. That was the smile that he would gladly launch himself into hell for, the smile that made him push through everything just to see. From a mass relay jump in a Mako, a suicide mission beyond the Omega-4 relay, to a Reaper invasion; that was the smile that finally made him let go.

She must have sensed it, because she waited until that moment to let her mouth follow the long path her fingers started. She kissed his markings as her hands stroked his scars, and licked his scars as she brushed her fingers against the sensitive skin of his throat. Slowly but surely, she wound and delved down his cowl and carapace, finding all those secret gaps and spaces between his plates that made him gasp and growl. He watched as she playfully bit against the cusp of his cowl, but actually whined wordlessly when she did it again at the exposed, hypersensitive hide at his waist.

By the time she reached his hips, he was out of his plates, panting from her exertions. She smiled that smile again, and ignored his urgent need for her to lap at his thighs and caress his spurs. Just when he felt, for thought was currently impossible, that any claims of Shepard being the compassionate, sympathetic commander were grossly exaggerated, she flicked her tongue against the head of his erection.

It was unfeasible to think his hips wouldn’t jerk up in response, but Shepard was always prepared for an attack. One hand gently pressed a sharp hip back against the bed and rested there while the other sweetly traced the ridges from the tip to the base of his member before partially closing around the base.

He was vaguely aware of the intermittent broken, reedy sounds that occasionally broke through the screaming blood in his aural canals, but when her tongue followed her fingers’ path once more, he was only aware of her hands and mouth and sly, adroit tongue.

Garrus didn’t like to put his hands on Shepard’s head whenever she took him in her mouth. Truth be told, he had an irrational fear of choking her, and accidentally causing her to gag or retch seemed like the worst thing he could possibly do. He didn’t like to dwell on the fact that she died and he never once allowed himself to imagine exactly what happened. But the fact remained that she suffocated. What if she remembered and made the connection between that and one of the greatest sources of his pleasure?  She might never do it again and Garrus let this minorly selfish reasoning discipline him.

But then she lightly scraped her teeth against his length and the only thing he could do was thread his talons through her hair to keep his hips from snapping into her face.

Perhaps having anticipated this action, Shepard gripped the base with both hands now, taking him as deep as she could, but trying to make up the difference with her tongue and hands, alternatively laving and stroking and sucking in equal measures.

It was enough that he felt the familiar tightening just behind his plates and he tugged rather urgently at her hair while pulling away slightly.

She understood, releasing him from her mouth with an obscene sound, then squeezing him so that he saw the colours from the nuclear aurora on Tuchanka behind his eyelids.

It worked, though. After a few ragged gasps, he was still hot and hard in her hands, but farther from the edge than he had been moments before.

He found that she was watching him, and only then he realised he had shut his eyes in the effort to stay on the precipice as long as possible.

Her mouth was glossy and red from their combined efforts; her eyes were wide and dark, and her bright hair spilled about her shoulders like raw copper silk.  His breath caught in a gasp, though she was only stroking him lightly, and when he did, she released him, his erection jerking fruitlessly in the space between them.

She smiled that smile once more, and began the wonderfully torturous journey back from his spurs to his mandibles with her fingers, lips, teeth, and tongue as her guides along the way.

He thought of nothing as his erection throbbed between their bellies. He only saw her and tasted them both when her mouth finally found his. She drew his tongue into her mouth and sucked it in rhythm with her rocking hips until he broke away, whimpering and straining beneath her.

He felt like he was coming home when she finally took him inside her tight, wet heat. He gloried in hearing that familiar gasp of pleasant surprise fall from her lips, and marvelled at the beautiful sight the angles and curves of their bodies made together.

She rose and fell over him like waves pulling him to a shore he was both desperate and regretful to reach. One hand was balanced on his hip while the other stroked his waist, her body bowed back so he could see where they were joined. She clenched around him each time she sank, hurtling him toward the edge instead of merely approaching it.

They had never come together. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though that was never the primary focus of their endeavours together. Garrus, ever the gentleman, usually preferred to make her come first, though he did enjoy drawing it out as long as possible by driving her toward the edge and then dragging her back again and again before one final push over. He liked to follow, then, the last of her orgasm urging his on. Sometimes, it didn’t work that way, of course, for various and sundry reasons but now, in this moment, he wanted them to come together in all ways possible.

Garrus clutched the small, slender-fingered hand on his hip in his own, pulling her forward until she brushed upon the edge of his pubic plates just so.  Shepard’s rhythm broke with a sharp gasp, but new understanding lit her face. Once again, her mouth quirked up, if a bit more dazed than before. Her other hand joined his in the twist of sheets as they moved together as one.

Finally, and all too quickly, he felt her measured squeezes become more spasmodic and, though he tried to stay teetering on the edge with her, he fell headlong into the abyss.

Days, or merely moments after he surged and spilled into her with a snap of his hips and a soundless cry, he opened his eyes, which once again he didn’t know had been closed at all, to Shepard’s secret smile. He flicked his mandibles at her in a weak version of his own, suddenly thoroughly exhausted once more, but in the best way possible. She started to extract herself from him, yet he pulled her close before she could do more than give an affectionate, thwarted laugh.  

He was too tired to do more than nuzzle her head and stroke her hair, so she took their other hands, still entwined in the sheets, and brought it up to press against her still-thudding heart.

“Thank you,” he rumbled into her hair, feeling the enticing embrace of sleep take hold.

He sensed, rather than saw, that corner of her mouth tilt upward.


	33. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Wrex talk at a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work!

**The Citadel, 2186**

 

Shepard was leaning against the banister in the same manner she leaned over the galaxy map, only this time she had a fond look on her face as she watched her crew and squad mates talk, eat, dance, and drink.  She rarely had the urge to take a picture, but the images around and below her were something she never wanted to forget.

Wrex, swilling Jimmy’s tequila like it was water, caught her espying the crowd. With a lumbering tread, he made short work of the stairs and settled by her side. She turned her head to greet him with a warm smile.

He gave her an appraising glance, then gestured with the bottle of noxious yellow liquid to Garrus and Zaeed below, both of whom were locked in the kind of serious deliberations one can only achieve when intoxicated. “So, you and the kid, huh?”

Her smile briefly expanded into a sheepish grin that she quickly tamped down into one of her more characteristic smirks. “Me and the kid.”

Wrex gave a bark of laughter that caused Samantha and Tali to look his way, but not enough to warrant further investigation. “I see you listened to my advice.”

 

_A headache, bagged tea, and requisition forms. Being a Spectre is so glamorous._

_“Shepard.”_

_She nearly jumps out of her seat behind her desk as his bulk presents itself in her quarters. “Wrex! Have a—er, make yourself comfortable.” Desperately, she looks around for a place in the captain’s room that might support a krogan._

_Wrex is unperturbed by the accommodations, or lack thereof, and leans against the closed door, shutting out Kaidan’s frankly curious stare. “You’ve been a good friend to me and my people.”_

_She hates the way things went on Virmire; all of it. Busying herself with stacking datapads, she replies vaguely, “Oh, uh, thanks…”_

_He’s watching her, and she’s never been one to avoid eye contact, instead meeting it square on. What he says next, though, surprises her.“So I'm going to give you some advice. He needs to grow up first. Give him some time.”_

_“Who?” she asks, knowing exactly the person in question._

_Whether Wrex is dazzled by her acting skills or running an excess of patience, she can’t determine. His voice is flat, as always. “The kid.”_

_She should be angry at this unsolicited advice as to her personal life, but instead, she feels oddly comforted. It’s been a very long time since anyone cared enough to interfere. So her voice is soft as she says, “I hear you.”_

She smiled at the memory, watching as the ‘kid’ in question gestures emphatically to the decorative glass he and Zaeed are examining. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Wrex let his pilfered bottle dangle precariously over the railing. “You look happy. Him, too.”

Her eyes stung briefly, as they had when Joker said something similar a year ago. She swallowed, hoping her voice wasn’t too thick. “Thanks.”

After another searching look, he put in, “You gonna get started on kids soon?”

She smirked again, but this time it was wistful. “I don’t think biology will work in our favour on that one.”

Wrex displayed his teeth in a knowing grin. “So you’ve talked about it.”

She tried to look annoyed at this line of questioning, but a subtle curve to her mouth betrayed her.  “Yeah, we have.”

“Then you’ll find a way. In the meantime, maybe I’ll lend you one of mine,” he said complacently.

Shepard was immediately alert, however, straightening away from the banister. “Do you have a clutch already?"

Wrex grinned, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Bakara told me before I left for this shindig.”

“Wrex…” she breathed, too happy and astounded for further verbiage.

His grin only grew as he dismissed her sentiment. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

She took his free hand and squeezed it.

Gently, he squeezed back.

After a few moments, he released her hand and they resumed their postures over the railing. “You don’t need me to say it, but I’m proud of you, kid.”

She shook her head, thinking of the suffering Bakara endured, Mordin’s ultimate sacrifice; all the krogan who gave their lives for a genophage cure and the countless generations lost in the time before it. “I didn’t do anything.”

Wrex gestured to the room below them. Miranda and Kaidan were actually laughing together, Joker was waving his arms in the air as though he hadn’t a care in the galaxy, James and Steve were cheering on Jack and Kasumi, of all people in a shots contest, and Garrus and Zaeed were still conferring over the glass display.  As though he knew she was watching him, Garrus looked up and flared his mandibles crookedly in her direction. “You did this.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t try to disguise the thickness of her voice this time. She watched the strangers who had become her family, and just for a moment, Shepard let her head rest on Wrex’s massive shoulder.


	34. For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta work!

**The Citadel, 2186**

He was walking back from the refugee camp when he saw it.

Though the Citadel remained largely untouched by the Reaper War, cracks in the façade were beginning to show. Food prices skyrocketed, the scars from Cerberus’ attack marred storefronts, cafés, and homes. Some had started flocking to the various and diverse places of worship scattered in the Five Wards, while others sought more casual comforts.

When he knew her on the _SR-1_ , Shepard wore a tiny, stylised hand charm on a dainty chain. Like her beloved leather jacket and all of her mortal possessions, it had perished, along with her, above Alchera. Though he knew a little about the origins of the jacket, he knew nothing about the necklace. He had thought about asking her what it meant once or twice, when her hand sometimes went to fiddle the phantom chain, but it passed into that minefield-laden territory of her death that he dared not cross.

Now, as Garrus stared at the display case of necklaces, advertised as ‘protection amulets,’ he didn’t scoff at the frivolity of Citadel residents, but thought of Shepard and her peculiar, persistent belief in hope.

“Can I help you with something, sir?” A willowy asari had suddenly appeared behind the case.

“Uh, no,” Garrus replied, though he didn’t look up from the necklaces. He could have been wrong, but he had some idea Shepard’s necklace had been a gift from her father. It had been dainty and delicate, perhaps better suited for a child than an adult.

“Were you interested in seeing one of the hamsas? Some humans believe it wards off the evil eye.” The saleswoman laughed. “Imagine, and they also wear eyes for that, too!”

It was true. Next to the hand pendants, which were crafted of various metals and differed in style from plain to ornate, were an assortment of eye charms. Some were enamel, some were of precious metal and stone, but all were blue.

The saleswoman appraised Garrus, then took a jewelled one out of the case. “For your girlfriend, perhaps? You could tell her that way she’ll always have a piece of you.”

Garrus coughed. The idea of presenting something like that to Shepard, with such a sentiment attached, was mortifying. Still, though, it was common among all species to bestow jewellery to romantic partners.

He knew about humans and rings, and ever since that day atop the Presidium, he thought about it. Realistically, though, Shepard couldn’t wear one comfortably under her gauntlets. A necklace, though, would not interfere out in the field and, though he would never presume to replace something that was emotionally priceless to Shepard, he thought it might be nice to present her with something new.

“Do you have anything in grey?”

The saleswoman was taken aback. “ _Grey_? Well— Why, actually, we have some grey diamond rings—"

“No,” he said so quickly that his mandibles moved sheepishly. “I mean, I think a necklace would be better.”

A ring could wait until after the war. He wanted something she could wear now, and always.

The asari’s tattooed brows knitted. “Not in our protection range, but there is something… wait right here.”

Garrus glanced at his omni-tool. In an effort to see that Shepard got some rest, Dr. Chakwas had persuaded her to stay at Anderson’s apartment while the _Normandy_ was docked. Shepard’s uncharacteristic snap at him when he encouraged her to sleep rattled him more than he let on. She had apologised, which was unnecessary, but the words echoed uncomfortably in his head. “ _When I’m dead_.”

She never spoke of it to him. Not even in their most intimate discussions did she ever allude to her missing two years. To bite it out like that, so suddenly, illustrated to Garrus how much her faith was suffering; how weary she truly was.

“Here we are,” the asari’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Was this what you had in mind?”

Garrus didn’t believe in miracles, fate, or destiny. He believed you made your own of each. But he couldn’t explain how such perfection had suddenly appeared in his lap.

The necklace was the same metal as Shepard’s long-lost necklace, and the same burnished reddish gold of her hair. The stones, like seven droplets of rain, dangled translucently grey with iridescent green flashes, like her eyes.

He stood, unmoving, speechless, and the saleswoman spoke. “The stones are from Earth. They’re something called labradorite. Not very precious, but pretty. The metal is fourteen karat rose gold. You can order another metal if—"

“No,” Garrus interrupted swiftly. “Uh, that won’t be necessary. I’ll take it.”

 

* * *

 

Shepard wasn’t resting, but cooking something that smelled suspiciously like _minutal_ , barefoot and in that grey tee shirt.

“Isn’t there an insulting Earth saying about this?”

She didn’t turn around, but she did smile. “Two out of three. It’s barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.”

He knew it wasn’t possible, but he did sometimes briefly indulge in that fantasy. Her, curvier than imaginable, his seed inside her, carrying their child. He usually chased it away and replaced the image with indistinct children, boys and girls, turian and human, tugging her hand while she laughed, making messes while she crossed her arms and leaned back on her heels. A beach somewhere, sunburnt skin and laughter, lazy days and languid nights. It honestly felt as good as the impossible image that infrequently popped up.

He left the package on the counter and settled behind her, slipping his hands under her shirt and wrapping them around her bare waist. Kissing the top of her head, her temple, her neck, he hummed.  She, predictably, shuddered as the dual-tones vibrated through them and set the spoon she had been using to stir on a paper towel by the sink. “Two out of three. Not my usual score.” His tongue flicked out to trace her ear and she sighed his name. “We should definitely fix that.”

Her laugh came out as another sigh, her hands reaching up to tug at his fringe. “Biology, remember?”

“Fuck biology.”

Afterwards, breathless and spent on the kitchen floor, Garrus remembered two things. “You were supposed to be resting.”

Shepard didn’t lift her head from his keel. “I’m resting now. Besides, I know how hard it is to be down at the docks.” Then, she did peer up at him, her hair in bright disarray. “You’re doing all you can. I wanted to do something for you. Even if it’s just a meal.”

Garrus swallowed his clamouring doubts, shut out the despair in the docks, and moved a hand through her hair. Her love sometimes overwhelmed him, but he couldn’t do without it. It was like a rush of oxygen after nearly drowning; dazzling and vital. “I know.”

She leaned in to kiss him and he sat up to meet her. “I got you something.”

If Shepard’s smile was one of sceptical amusement, Garrus couldn’t blame her. His idea of gifts heretofore consisted of upgrading her omni-tool and calibrating her rifle. She had no reason to suspect the package on the recently defiled counter contained anything but spare medigel packs.

As his reach was quite longer than hers, he grabbed it from above them and thrust it at her awkwardly, suddenly self-conscious and aware of his nakedness.

Shepard darted another amused glance his way, but obediently opened the object in her hands. The laughter fled her face as she looked from the necklace to his bashful countenance. “Garrus…”

“Do you like it?” he asked, subvocals both eager and wary.

She held it up to the light, her eyes sparkling as much as the gemstones. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’d put it on you but…” he clicked the talons of one hand together to indicate the problem.

Shepard sniffled a laugh and, in an exquisite display of bare skin sliding over muscle and bones, clasped it on herself.

“What do you think?” she asked unnecessarily, seeing the reflection of his thoughts in his eyes.

He reached out to trace the chain that lay across her collarbone. “Nice,” he replied with thick subvocals, though his words were light. “It goes with my favourite shirt of yours.”

Shepard laughed and pulled him in for a damp kiss. Garrus tugged her close, turning his face into her hair as she moved hers against his neck. She sniffled into his bare hide, and though they were tangled on the unforgiving floor of a borrowed kitchen, the heavy scent of simmering stew was pungent in the air and the Reaper threat loomed over them, he thought it was the most perfect moment of his life.

 


	35. Days Go By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus finds himself smiling more than he'd ever expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work!
> 
> We're coming into the home stretch here. Only three more chapters to go. Thank you all so very much for reading, commenting, following, and bookmarking this work! I truly cannot say how grateful I am to have readers like you. <3

**_Normandy SR-2,_ ** **2186**

****

It was never that he wasn't interested. It was the ever-present gnawing doubt. How could it work? How could he be a part of the failure of something she so clearly wanted?

And she wanted so little. He could count on his hands the number of times she said ‘I want’ and it actually applied to herself, not the Alliance or Cerberus or a crew mate.

So he tried to dissuade her. Give her the impression that the idea had never crossed his mind. He thanked an entire legion of spirits that humans were mostly tone-deaf to the intricacies of turian subvocals.

The overwhelming fear of disappointing her outweighed the slim chance things would actually go right.  Garrus might not have a great understanding of love, but he excelled in mathematics. The odds were stacked against them. Her luck had burned out over Alchera and his was a navy stain on Omega.

But saying no was out of the equation too. He couldn't fail her or disappoint her or deny her. Garrus was sure there were a number of delightful human idioms to colourfully express the situation, but it all came down to the fact that this was a problem he couldn't solve and that was something he could never let go. Not in mathematics, not in C-Sec, not in life.

That left defensive measures.  Using the crew as an excuse to appeal to her sense of duty. Pushing it to the last minute, as though there was ever a calm before the storm when you're both already riding out typhoons. Encouraging her to find someone closer to home. ‘You are my home,’ she said, so earnestly, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

But she was so concerned about his feelings that he couldn't take the out she gave him. Her hand had been on his arm and she had said, bold as brass and clear as glass, ‘I want you.’ It was all he could do to make another awful pun and not pull her into his arms to apply all the research he had already done.

And then she was next to him in that bar, the only human patron, though she didn't seem to notice or care. She was so damned happy to see him and the most relaxed he had seen her since, well, _ever._ Somehow, he, Garrus Vakarian, all-around disappointment to himself and his race, had succeeded where everyone else had failed. The credence she lent to others always surprised him, but the absolute faith she had in him was astounding. He wanted to be the person she believed him to be.

Why the hell not. He had said it to her before, but he didn't mean it until that moment, when her hair, the softest thing he heretofore felt brushed his face and her scent, none of the ingredients unknown or uncommon but together all uniquely her filled his head.

Being with her was the easiest thing he had ever done.

Sure, it took some work, but all things worth having in life did. He wasn't born the best sniper either, but holding her, like this, was as natural as holding a rifle.

During those rare moments when she was actually asleep and he wasn’t, he would think how terrible it would have been for him to settle for someone who was simpler, rather than be with Shepard and experience what a little effort could afford. Yet, he didn't regret the time it took him to get there, either. Becoming equals, growing comfortable in his own plates, even Omega and all it entailed made him a better person in ways that an ordinary life could not.

She had said the most peculiar thing to him earlier, though he supposed he understood it now. “Sometimes, I can't hate the Reapers because, without them, I wouldn't have met you.” He had scoffed at the idea and then distracted her several times over. But now as she drowsed in his arms, he could acknowledge what she meant.

They always had their most intimate discussions in bed, as though the physical act further manifested itself through conversation.

He had been back on the _Normandy_ for only a week, but no one seemed to question the fact that he slept in the captain’s quarters. If anything, he had caught the new shuttle pilot— Steve was his name, looking a little wistfully at the pair he and Shepard made.

They never even held hands in public. There were no cute nicknames or quick kisses beyond the privacy of Shepard’s cabin, and yet everyone on the ship knew. And, if they cared, it was to be happy about it. Jimmy, as Shepard called the hulking behemoth that had been her former guard, had slapped Garrus on the back and said, “You’re one lucky _cabron_ , y’know that?” The marine’s face had been split in a grin the whole time. Later, Shepard had whispered, “I’m the lucky one,” and proceeded to thank him, quite profusely, for the opportunity.

She was examining his hand between hers as though it were a holy relic. “I think I need you more than you need me.”

The idea was so preposterous that he laughed. “Well, that’s not true.”

“You didn’t need this.” It was said as a statement, as a fact.

Her voice was so full of conviction that he took his hand from hers and lifted her chin so that she looked at him. “I didn’t _know_ I needed this.”

She did look at him, but her eyes were searching, and something else he rarely saw— doubtful. “Are you sure this is what you want? I’m not trying to be needy, honestly. Sometimes… sometimes I feel like I pushed you into all of this and I was too selfish to stop myself.” Her mouth twisted on the word she hated so much.

He held her face between both his hands now, and though it hadn’t occurred to him, he thought she could be nearly as hard-headed as himself. “Shepard. You might push me sometimes, but only when I know I need it. You know me better than I know myself sometimes. Yeah, you pushed.  And I let you, because I wanted you to.”

“Are you sure?” She looked so relieved that he wanted to kiss her.

So he pressed his forehead to hers, and then did just that. “Yeah. I am. Definitely.”

 

* * *

 

 “Garrus?”

“Yeah?”

They were in bed now, but it had been a horrible day. When they had finally disembarked from the Kodiak and landed aboard the _Normandy_ , Adrien was waiting for them in the shuttle bay. Shepard had knelt in front of him and bowed her head until the back of her neck was exposed: an old turian tradition following a failed mission. Garrus could still hear the devastated keen in the Primarch’s subvocals.

In the present, Shepard hesitated. She wouldn't look him in the eye. She pressed her thumb to the second knuckle of each finger before tucking it underneath them and making a blanched fist. “I'm going to ask you something, but don't answer me until you've really thought about it.”

He shifted, suddenly alert. They had both been too tired and heartsick to do more than fall into bed after separate showers, but neither could sleep. “Uh, okay.” He found his heart thumping painfully.

She didn't speak for a moment. Then, as though gathering nerve, she started haltingly then went into a rush, “When we’ve— when I've— You're a good leader. If you think that you have a duty to follow me, you don't. If you think you could do more with Victus or on your own, you need to do that.”

“Shepard—” he began, aghast and unnerved.

She was not to be deterred. “You need to do what's best. You need to do what you want.”

He was almost afraid to speak, to trust his own voice. “Is that what you want?”

That horrible, mirthless laugh escaped her. “It doesn't matter what I want.”

He sat up, angry now. “Yes, it does.”

“It's selfish,” she spat the word, as though she despised it.

A dizzying sense of relief came over him. He wasn’t entirely sure if the stars he saw came from the skylight or his own assuagement. “I thought I told you that you had to learn to be better at that,” he reminded her lightly. It felt safe to tease now.

“Garrus—" she started, still very grave.

“I can't tell you what I want until you tell me what you want.” The childish philosophy earned that sneaking corner of a smile.

“I want you by my side for the rest of my life,” she said after cupping his mandible in her hand.

He turned his head to nuzzle her hand. “Good. Because I want you by _my_ side for the rest of my life.”

Her brow furrowed despite his amorous overtures. “But, seriously, you have all these opportunities to be in command and you deserve them so much. I don't want you to turn those down because you think you need to watch my six.”

His hands trailed down to pat the anatomy in question. “Well, the view is _really_ nice. But, seriously,” That sneaking smile appeared again on her face as he grew sober.  “I _want_ to be here and I'm needed here. I can do the most good here. Really, Shepard. You're not holding me back from anything, if that's what's on your mind.”

She still sounded searching, but he saw relief behind the scrutinous look in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

He moved his hands up to pull her close against him. “Yeah. Definitely.” She curled into his side, the warmth of her body an analgesic to the pain of the previous hours. “Plus, it's like the Reapers have your scent or something. They're bound to show up if you're going to be there. I figure I can kick the most ass and watch the finest at once.”

She shook her head, fighting unsuccessfully not to grin at him. “ _You_ are such an ass.”

He pulled her head up to his. “Come here, you little pyjack.”

 

* * *

 

“Did it hurt?” She was tracing his colony tattoos.

“The rocket?” he lazily quipped.

She made a face, but her fingers lingered over the scars. “The tattoos, you ass.”

“Compliments will get you everywhere.” She smiled wanly, but didn't otherwise engage, so he decided to answer truthfully. “Yeah. More after than during, though neither was fun. Getting them touched up isn't too bad, though.”

“Poor little fledgling.” Her voice wasn't nearly as mocking as her words suggested.

Sometimes, he imagined colours marking her face. The sharp cheekbones, the tilt of her chin, but as his talons ran up and down her arm, he remembered Jimmy’s gun-jumping N7 tattoo, the colours on William’s bicep, Jack, and wondered aloud, “Why don't you have any?”

“Colony markings?” she deadpanned.

“Tattoos, you pyjack.”

“It's against my religion.” She said it so solemnly that he waited for her mouth to turn up.

When it didn’t, he scoffed, “No, seriously.”

“No, seriously,” she echoed, quite so.

He was alert now, sitting up as much as he could without displacing her. “Really? Why?”

She moved with him, her head cradled against his shoulder. “There's a lot of debate, but the general idea is that our glorious human form was created with perfection and we shouldn't mess with it.”

She said this with such derision that he cut in, admiring said form with his hands and a purr of subvocals. “It _is_ pretty glorious.”

She laughed, a light sound that he wished he heard more often than her bitter chuckles.  “And also idolatry. Don’t ask me to explain. But that's not why I never did it.”

“So why not?”

“Do you remember on Noveria, while we were waiting for clearance in the Mako, I went on a bit of a tirade?”

“A bit?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she retorted fondly, swatting at his chest. He caught her hand and wove her too-many fingers with his.  “Anyway, a lot of my ancestors were tattooed against their will, so I always felt it would be disrespectful.”

He hummed thoughtfully. Each race had committed their share of atrocities, both amongst themselves, and against each other. The war summit had shown that few were willing to band together, even now, with worlds lost daily.

Shepard’s voice interrupted his grim thoughts. “But I was wondering, hypothetically speaking—"

Garrus’ mandibles twitched in a jesting smirk. “Ah, hypothetically. Are you also asking for a friend?”

She lifted her head to glare at him, but her mouth was curled up in that corner he loved. “You're impossible, you know that?”

He flashed her a shameless grin. “Obviously. That's why you keep me around.”

She sighed, a bit too dramatically to be completely annoyed. “Fine. Never mind.”

He tugged her hand, which was still entwined with his. “Oh, come on. I'll behave.”

Her head went back to his shoulder. “You know how you said you always wanted to learn how to paint?”

Now it was his turn to sound overly exasperated. “Do you remember every stupid thing I've ever said?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she grinned up at him.

He addressed the stars above them. “Now I know what Massani meant by ‘ball and chain.’”

“So I guess you wouldn't want to get some face paint and practice on me. Okay. I should go and—” She made a show of extracting herself from his embrace and the warm bed.

He caught her arm and pulled lightly, so she collapsed atop him with another light laugh. “Oh, no, I'd definitely like to do that.”

She smiled, her mouth just above his. “Definitely?”

“Definitely,” he agreed, closing the distance between them.

 

* * *

 

She was in her usual spot, curled up against him, tracing lazy patterns over his carapace. “We never really talked about it.”

‘It’ implied two things: her death and Omega. The verboten topics. He stiffened, his hand stilling in her hair.

She didn’t stop her aimless caresses, however. “Turians believe a unit has a spirit.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered it, half-curious as to where she was taking the thought. “Yeah.”

“You are a part of that spirit.” Her voice was soft, but unavoidable, like gently falling rain that soaks through as much as a hard downpour.

He had never considered that before. When he thought of his team, he took himself out of the equation. He watched his talons move in her hair once more, mulling over this new equation. It was easier to do without her watching him, though it must have been killing her just the same.

Her hand hadn’t stilled from tracing lazy, soothing patterns over his carapace. “He was too.”

His hand froze in a jerky motion. The other variable he refused to include in any calculations but revenge. And yet, when he searched for that fury now, he only felt a strange sort of emptiness tinged with regret. If he hadn’t pushed them so hard, if he stopped while he was ahead, if he listened to their needs and desires instead of indulging his own.

She moved abruptly, sliding out of his loosened grasp to face him, eyes clear and bright as they met his. “It would have been like letting you put a bullet in your own head.”

He had certainly never saw it that way, but the argument, presented in that slow but persuasive way of hers, hit home. He couldn’t match her gaze, but when it dropped, he sensed rather than heard her sigh. She started to move, presumably to get out of the bed and leave him to his own thoughts. The idea of being alone with them, though, was more terrifying than he could ever admit. He caught her arm gently, hoping he wouldn’t have to ask her to stay aloud. She didn’t pull away, rather acquiesced as he arranged them back into their previous positions. Her hand rested on his carapace, lightly rubbing now. His talons threaded through her hair. It was comforting to be silent with someone. It had always been comfortable to be silent with her.

Shepard never said ‘I told you so.’ It wasn’t her style. It was very much his. Just like she had no problem admitting when she was wrong and he’d rather drink varren piss. Still, he found this one time, he owed it to her to say it, in lieu of all of the other unspoken words, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The week had been brutal. Cerberus had stormed the Citadel and left a path of destruction in their wake. Maybe it would finally get the Council’s head in the game, but all Garrus could feel was a bleak kind of exhaustion. As though the Reapers weren’t enough to fight, they had to deal with an indoctrinated terrorist organisation and bitter political grudges.

The one respite had been Shepard and her damned optimism. And even that was running thin.

“You okay?” she asked him, her head pillowed on the soft hide of his stomach.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It was such an automatic response that he didn’t even wonder if it was true.

She was so clearly used to this rote reply that she gave it no consideration before she said, “No, I mean, C-Sec was your home.”

Something, actually, was not fine, and it was currently in the Starboard Lounge. He never had a problem with Alenko before. He could even understand his scepticism on Horizon. But doubting Shepard after the invasion, pointing a gun in her face, and then acting like he had been at her side all along stoked those rash, furious embers Garrus tried so hard to keep smothered. To question her resurrection, fine, he could understand that. To doubt her loyalty to righteousness was unacceptable. “It’s not like a former friend pointed a gun at my head.”

She frowned in that way he knew meant she didn’t want to hear _that_ argument. “Garrus, please.”

He sighed and watched the stars rushing past. “I’m fine, Shepard.”

She took his hand and expertly wove their mismatched fingers together. “Talk to me. I’m here.”

It took a while for him to say it. The final report had just come in the last shift. “They’re dead. They’re all dead. Rob, Lamont, all of them.”

She pressed her mouth to his knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

She sat up, pale skin glowing like a crescent of moonlight in the twilight-tinted room. “I’m not going to give you platitudes. This is… all of this is unimaginable. Your mom, Palaven, your family being out there… Everything you’re going through is nothing anyone should face. And I know it’s not much, but I’m here for you. I’m always here for you.”

No, it wasn’t much. It was everything. He heard is subvocals thick and tremulous in the relative silence. “Yeah. I know.”

Eventually, she had laid down next to him and he had drawn her close. He was nearly asleep when she abruptly asked, “Would you have shot him?”

He was stupid with slumber and confusion. “Who?”

There was a pause before she said it. “Kaidan.”

Suddenly, he was very awake. “He had a gun pointed at you.”

This didn’t seem like a valid argument to her. Her shoulder shrugged against his cowl. “Lots of people have pointed guns at me. Would you have shot him?”

Though he knew the answer, he deferred saying it aloud. “I knew you’d talk him down.”

“But if I couldn’t?” she persisted. The cabin was never dark, with the skylight and the aquarium. He couldn’t escape her gaze.

“Yeah.”

She seemed neither surprised nor upset by this answer. “If the gun was pointed at you, I don’t think I’d have waited as long.”

In surprise, he turned to look down at her. Shepard used her gun as a last resort. He would never have thought she wouldn’t try to barter for his life, but simply secure it with a bullet. It made him feel oddly pleased and he nuzzled the top of her head. “I have faith in you. You talked Saren down.”

He could tell she was smiling, though he couldn’t see it. She tilted her face up to kiss him lightly. “I trust you, too.”

“But not to talk anyone down,” he teased.

This time, he saw the smile in full view. “That’s how having each other’s sixes works. I talk and, failing that, you shoot.”

His hand slid down to squeeze the part of her anatomy in question. “I thought _this_ was having each other’s sixes.”

Her smile turned into a smirk, but she pressed closer into his side. “Well, that too. Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, his voice a flirtatious purr.

Her face grew quite serious, though, and she reached up to cup his mandible. “Having faith in me.”

He fell back against the pillows. He wasn’t really sure he had another round in him left anyway. It was very late. “Well, in that case, thanks for not making me the mouthpiece of this little operation.”

Her hand dropped to his keelbone. “I wish you had more faith in yourself.” She sounded a little wistful.

It was definitely too late for a Commander Shepard pep talk and he began to tell her so. “Shepard—”

She sat up, then leaned over him so all he saw was her expressive face and earnest eyes. “I love you.”

He stroked her hair, the words stuck in his throat. How could she be so fearless in the very way he was not? He loved her, though the initial urge to shout it from the top of the Presidium quickly passed. It felt too precious, too sensitive to say aloud. It felt like an auspice.

Shepard ran away. No, that wasn’t true. She ran toward things. Righteousness, justice, danger. She was as elusive as the wind; like trying to hold water. If he gave voice to his innermost feelings, she might go up in smoke. He lost her twice. Once, before he knew how he felt and again when he understood it all too well. Humans had all sorts of sayings about threes. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t say it aloud. He had to make her understand it every other way.

He didn’t look away, though, but met her serious gaze head on. It came out, thick with meaning he couldn’t otherwise express, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Another time, when he was sprawled and spent on the bed, and she had a very self-satisfied smirk on her face, he thought about something he said several minutes earlier.

“Is it weird that I call you Shepard?”

“I think it would be stranger if you didn't.”

“No, I mean... you know…” He made a vague gesture that in no way implied anything at all.

She propped her head up on her arm and asked in a provocative tone, “When we’re fucking?”

He knew that the abrupt vulgarity was meant to throw him off-topic. Despite the fact they were lying in post-coital languidness, he felt the back of his neck heat but he gave her a quelling look. “Yeah, actually. It feels… impersonal.”

She shrugged the shoulder visible, a valley appearing and disappearing with the rise and fall of her clavicle. “It's my name.”

He reached out to trace that dip between her shoulder and neck. “You must have a given name.”

“I have two, actually.”

“Two? Impressive,” Garrus drawled. He knew this, and the names, but not why she was simply ‘Shepard.’

She smirked a little, at his tone, but her eyes were far away. “No one ever called me by any of them, though.”

“No one?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ as though they were having a frivolous discussion.

“Never?” He sounded incredulous.

She turned her head to yawn into her tangled hair. “Never.”

He let his hand drop, stifling his own yawn. “Huh. Why not?”

She was silent as she nestled into his arms. He knew then he would get an answer, and threaded his talons through her messy locks. “My dad had a lot of nicknames for me and his friends would just call me one or the other. After—well, it didn't really matter. It’s not like I'd have used my real name then. And then I joined up and all anyone does is refer to you by your surname after that. And, in case you didn't notice, people love to give me nicknames.”

He hummed in agreement, lightly scratching her scalp.  “I have.”  This time, he paused, weighing the question he eventually asked.  “What did he call you?”

Her breath was warm against his plates. “Oh, you know, the usual. Kiddo, sweetheart, kitten.”

“What?”

Her fingers curled into the cusp of his cowl; she was curved completely against him. “You know those cat vids you love so much? It's an infant cat.”

He thought of the way Rob and Stefan’s furry pet had situated itself in his lap like it belonged there and burrowed its face in his abdomen as though to draw out all his warmth, and how Shepard would press up against him in much the same manner, even now. “Yeah, I can definitely see the resemblance.”

He felt her mouth twist in a smirk. “Don't make me hit you.”

Mandibles flared, he stroked her head deliberately. “That’s a good girl.”

She lifted her head to shoot him a heatless glare, but soon resumed her drowsy, half-lidded attitude against his chest. Her voice was soft as she finally said, “He called me Rosie. For my hair.” Her hand went to her throat for a moment, but the chain she was seeking still wasn't there.

He thought of her eternal hopefulness, the beacon of which drew even the most hardened cynics into her fold. He caught her fingers in his hand. “I can see that.”

She turned her head, so her chin rested against him but she could still level a serious look into his eyes. “It would be really weird if you called me that.”

“So you're saying I'm stuck with Shepard?”

“Afraid so.”

He considered this for a moment, then appeared to have a brilliant idea. “Pyjack.”

She sat up. “Oh no—”

His mandibles moved in a contented grin. “Perfect.”

“Garrus...” she began warningly.

“Or you could just tell me one of your numerous names,” he reasoned, holding an arm out to her.

But she just smiled and rested her head on his chest, as though she owned it. Which, as he thought of it, curling his proffered arm around her, she did.

 

* * *

 

“How do you do it?”

“Well, my legs bend that way naturally.”

Shepard was always flirtatious.  As Jimmy once said, it was their way of being friendly, but she was positively coquettish in these lazy pillow talks. He felt a warm rush of affection toward her as he ran his talons, ticklishly-light, up her thigh. 

“Pyjack. No, I mean… how do you stay so, you know… hopeful?”

She considered his question as she shifted against him, her soft, warm chest pressing against his as she settled her chin on his keelbone. “There’s a story— a myth— about the first woman on Earth, called Pandora. She had a box— well, actually, it was her womb. There was a mistranslation from the word ‘womb’ which was similar to ‘jar’ but, anyway. She gave birth to all the evils of the world. War, famine, disease. The usual. But she also gave birth to, and retained hope. I guess I like to think we all carry hope inside of ourselves.”

Her eyes were so bright as she said this that he didn’t feel disappointed in not receiving a clearer answer. He thought he could understand it. Only, he thought she was the one carrying hope inside her. It shone out like a beacon, ready to light his way.

He pulled her close and she slid back to his side, her cheek against his keelbone once more. Though they both knew they hadn’t much time before they would both need to leave the little sanctuary they made and get back to the work of survival. It seemed easier for him now, though, holding hope in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Something had been bothering him since that awful time after the fall of Thessia, when he held Shepard in his arms as she railed against the asari and refused, for once, to comfort the one in Miranda’s former office. It was as though all her anger at the asari’s treacherousness, in concealing vital information and their reluctance to join to war effort, was concentrated into snubbing the erstwhile Shadow Broker.

No, it went back earlier than that. Perhaps even before their first visit on Ilium and the chilly glitter in her eyes when she greeted Liara and, just prior to entering her office, when Shepard requested that he not leave her side.

His talons were in her hair, as usual. “Shepard?”

Her head was against his keelbone, as usual. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, and she didn’t press him, allowing him the same courtesy he afforded her. Finally, with his subvocals higher than normal, he asked, “Are you happy?”

She tilted her head up to him with a lascivious smile. “I thought I made that really clear.”

“Heh.” Shepard was never very loud, but she was _very_ grateful. The very recent memory of her soft vocal thanks made him warm, but he ignored it. “Yeah, no, I mean… are you happy? Being here?”

She sat up so quickly that several strands of her hair came away with his hand.  “Garrus, I love you. I—”

He put that hand reassuringly on her naked shoulder. “No, I know, I mean…” He swallowed, mustering the wherewithal to say it. “With what Liara did.”

Shepard drew the sheet up around her, as though to protect herself from the question. Her gaze faltered for once and her lashes made dark shadows on her high cheeks. She took a breath and set her shoulders in such a familiar way that he didn’t hesitate to sit up and take her free hand in his.

“I don’t remember anything. I mean, I remember the pull of my antigrav boots when I was trying to get to Joker. I remember a second of Miranda, at some point, her voice. But I don’t remember anything else.”

It wasn’t an answer and he hesitated, looking at her slim fingers entwined with his. “Remember I asked you if you liked your job?”

“Yeah.” The fond memory lit up her eyes.

“Do you like it any better now?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she replied unhappily, twisting her fingers in his.

He loosened his grip to hold her face between his hands, as she often did to him. “Do you want to be here? I don’t mean with me. I mean _here_ here.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them. Wide and sincere and grey, he knew whatever she said would be the truth. “I want to be here. With you. I say I can’t do it without you because I can’t. _You_ are my here and I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He pressed his forehead to hers and she wrapped her arms around his cowl. “What he said wasn’t true, you know.”

He pulled his head back a little, confused. “What who said?”

Her mouth twitched up in that smile he loved so much. “The _Normandy_ isn’t my only love.”

It wasn’t until he had kissed her so thoroughly that the sheet tangled between them and her back was on the mattress again that he answered, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Garrus?”

 Her voice was high and soft. He had heard her say his name like this once before, in that hotel room on the Citadel. He almost didn’t respond, because he knew she was trying to ask something difficult and sacrosanct. But when she didn’t follow through, he replied easily, as though he suspected nothing. “Yeah?”

Her face was hidden from him; her eyelashes brushing his plates and her mouth warm and damp against his keelbone. “How did you know it was me?”

He was about to ask what she was talking about when the enormity of the question hit him as hard as that ill-fated gunship had on the day in question. His plates tightened with tension. Their unspoken agreement to not speak of her death or his time on Omega was felled by that high, soft question.

He tried for levity. “Who else would you be?”

“Garrus…” She sighed, and he suddenly felt ashamed to have been so jocular with her when she asked something that had been troubling her for so long.

He had called the clone a pale imitation of the real thing and he meant it. Nothing could replace the red-gold hair between his fingers or the soft, white cheek pressed against his carapace. Nothing could be a substitute for her sharp wit or shining hope. Nothing could love him so fiercely or be adored in return.

He didn’t have to think for his response. It came from his heart. “You hold your gun against your shoulder a little too low and the kickback gets you every shot. You roll it a certain way, like you’re testing out the joint. Your hand signals are fluid, graceful.  You put your weight on your left but favour your right to a fault. And… you have this smile you only give to me.”

She lifted her head, and if her eyes sparkled with more than just gratitude, neither of them said so. She deliberately pushed her mouth against his.

“What was that for?”

She smiled, as soft as her voice. “For you being you.”


	36. Blood Makes Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After 2181 Despoina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for her beta-work!
> 
> This one is short, but I hope bittersweet.

“Never do that again.”

She didn’t reply, and he knew she couldn’t. Couldn’t say those words, make that promise, couldn’t lie.

He should have let her wash her face. There was dried blood crusted under her nose and her hair was still wet, clustered in tiny ringlets where it had escaped her ponytail from the mist and rain. There had been urgency in their lovemaking before, but the exigency of this coupling blinded him. He wanted to possess her, to invade her. To wrap her up completely around him and keep her safe.

He knew he couldn’t.

He had never been this scared before. The so-called suicide mission had seemed like a joke, a game, compared to this. His world, her world, were burning. He had heard the shriek of a Reaper so often that it seemed normal, inevitable, like a sunrise.

He could lose her and the very thought made his lungs seize.

She was scared, too. She shook during the shuttle ride back, and not just from the chill air. She unlatched his armour just as urgently as he did hers. She clung to him, arms and legs and grasping hands, with the same desperation that fuelled his hasty thrusts.

“Promise me.” It was a plea, not a demand, breathed into her damp curling hair.

“I can’t,” she whispered in return. Her voice was mournful in its honesty. “I love you but I can’t.”

He knew this and loved her for it, in spite of it, because of it. He hated it just as fiercely.

He felt the way he had when she told him she was going to turn herself in, after Bahak. The frenzied desire to hold her, to keep her, and the despairing realisation that he couldn’t and wouldn’t love her so much if he had the power to stop her. Her selflessness was infuriating and captivating. If she wasn’t so principled, so upright, so honourable, she wouldn’t be Shepard. She wouldn’t be the woman Garrus loved.

“I know,” he said helplessly before falling headlong into the abyss. _I know you’re right. I know you’re telling the truth. I know I love you. I know one day I might not be able to follow you. I know._

He didn’t pull away, and she only held him tighter, their foreheads pressed together.  In this embrace, this stolen moment, they could belong only to each other. Nothing could touch them, secure in their knowledge that they knew nothing of the future.

 


	37. Reasons for Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this penultimate scene, Shepard is secure in her decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done! I couldn't have done this without the best beta ever, [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) and you amazing readers and commenters. Thank you all so much!

**The Citadel, 2186**

 

The first time she saw the boy, she was running.

House arrest, and not the brig, at Kim Campbell Aerospace Base meant that from 5 am to 8 am PST, she could run the track on the gravelled roof of Building C and use her commissary chit to buy a coffee.

Running laps in the frigid fall and freezing winter of the Pacific Northwest was probably meant as further punishment, but she went every morning, rain, snow, or foggy dawn, welcoming the burning cold air that made her lungs ache for hours afterward.

Lt. James Vega, her hulking pit-bull puppy of a guard, did not. “Hey, _la princesa,_ how about we skip today?”

James, merely following the very long list of people before him, was determined to find the absolute perfect nickname for her. Since she didn't think James suited him, either, they traded new ones every few days. There were missteps, of course. Once, she tried Diego _,_ and he very quietly asked her not to call him that, and there was a morning where he bandied out ‘kitten,’ and she had to turn her face away to say, “Don't.”

“I’ll buy you coffee,” she promised temptingly.

This was their exchange every morning. He’d come down to the little studio flat where she was held and try to convince her it was too miserable to go outside. She’d insist, despite the fact it was clear she didn't tolerate the cold very well. Then the guard on duty would scan her for any weapons she could have possibly made materialise under lock and key and she’d inquire after their children or significant others, always remembering their names and ages and if they played football or were up for a promotion. On the ride up to the roof, James would inevitably ask if she wanted to choose the music they ran to, mostly because he had been so gleeful to discover that the great Commander Shepard had horrible taste in music and proceeded to rib her about it at every opportunity. She would always smile and insist anything at all was fine with her, but, depending on the day and usually the bit of news she could read that wasn't redacted, the smile would be wistful to barely measurable. That smile was usually a good barometer for Vega to predict how hard she'd push herself around the oval and if she’d stop before she started coughing until it sounded like a lung might make an appearance. He liked to suggest getting coffee before that happened, but though Shepard was technically under his command, he just couldn't see it that way. And, truthfully, neither could most of the inhabitants of the base. So when the committee got wind that Shepard was using her commissary chit to buy her guards coffee and doughnuts, they cut the funds and ordered the cafeteria to ration her meals. Since she had ingratiated herself to most on the base, not just because she was the mythical Commander Shepard, but also that she was actually friendly, approachable, and unfathomably _nice,_ there was a backlash among the staff. The story was leaked, and since it was apparent that she had little appetite and lost weight, there were hints of ‘hunger strike’ and ‘starvation’ in the news reports. Public opinion among humans, especially Earthborn, of Shepard was still riding high, and the subsequent debacle forced the committee to reinstate her allowance and extend her one hour outside to three.

It was then, during a particularly freezing morning, when the air was bone dry and the breaking sun was blinding, that Shepard saw a little boy across the airshaft, inside the plated glass of Building B, playing with a model of the _SSV Cairo_.

“Hey, Jimmy!”

“Yeah?”

“Is there a school there?”

Vega slowed to a jog, squinting through the white rays quickly burning up the fog. “No, why?”

Shepard shielded her eyes with her hand, staring at the space for some time. “I thought I saw a little boy.”

“Aw, no way. There's no kids on the base.”

When she didn't catch up to him, he turned and shouted, “C’mon and buy me a coffee! _¡Qué puto frío!”_

She hesitated for a moment, then jogged after him.

The second time she saw the boy, she was leaving a conference room with her JAG rep. This time, Shepard said nothing, but as she had often done when scoping out marks during her time with the Reds, she gave him a story. His parents both worked on the base. His mother was an engineer and his father was an attaché to the committee. He wanted to be a pilot, but maybe also a Spectre, or possibly a medic, as dreams at that age are often fluid and varied. He did, however, like to play with toy ships and skycars and ATVs and would beg his mother to talk about the dreadnaught she was retrofitting, and his father would hold him up on his shoulders when a ship circled overhead, taking off from the base. She liked the idea of this vague, cozy family so much that she looked out for him in the passing months.

The third time she saw the boy, he died.

She had watched him that morning as he played. She had tried to coax him out of the airshaft when the Reapers came.  She could still feel the way her throat burned with bile when she turned to Anderson, just for a moment, and the boy was gone. It was the same sensation she had innumerable times:  when the Alliance rescued her from Akuze, when Ashley and Kirrahe were left on Virmire, when the _Destiny Ascension_ went dark, when Joker wouldn't give up the _Normandy SR-1,_ when Garrus was bleeding out on Omega, when the Collectors took her crew, and when she tried to warn the Bahak System.

She remembered thinking, terribly, that at least he wouldn't be turned into a husk, when the ship carrying him was obliterated.

She wasn't surprised when he appeared in her dreams. They were, after all, a mausoleum of all the dead she knew. Her father, dashing in his well-cut suit, his charming smile at odds with the gaping hole in his head. The sergeant, Greg Weiss—she’d never forget his name—eternally asking her if she wanted to catch a vid when they had shore leave after they left ‘this swamp’, his face frozen in a skeleton grin by the chartreuse acid of a thresher maw. Ashley, wafting smoke and cinder like her nickname, wondering if she died because they didn't much like each other alive.

She saw him during waking hours, too. Out of the corner of her eye at the refugee camps, in the elevator she missed to Heurta Memorial. Behind the sliding doors of a public rapid transit shuttle on her way to Silversun Strip.

It wasn't until the thick, oily fog in her brain began to clear as the Catalyst spoke that she realised no one else ever saw the boy but her.

She barely listened. It didn’t matter. Her mind had been made up since Eden Prime. Nothing— not even the threat of annihilation of artificial life— could change her mind. What organic life had created once, it could rebuild better and stronger and safer than before. She was sorry, though. Sorrier than she had ever been in her entire life. Sorry not to have followed the one order she wanted to see through more than anything else.

Her blood dripped audibly on the floor below. Her bone gleamed through the serrated flesh of her arm. Her free hand clutched her stomach as though to keep her guts from leaking out.

Yet, as she limped toward the conduit and lifted her pistol, she knew that she was right.


	38. New Age / Pandora's Aquarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most heartfelt, eternal thanks belongs to [Some_Writer,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) without whom these stories would have never seen the light of day. 
> 
> My utter awe and gratitude belongs to you lovely readers and commenters, who make every chapter worth posting.
> 
> Thank you all so very much.

The last time he saw Shepard, she was running.

How many times has he watched her run toward death? He had thrown that up at her once, her lips turning as white as her face, and she denied it fiercely after a moment of stunned silence.

A moment, just like the one now fading as she ran toward the beam, when he knew it was pointless to argue with her any further.

There was a delicacy to her features, a gracefulness to her movements, illuminated by the beams and blasts as she looked back one last time. Her skin glowed white like a moon; her hair was molten copper. When he blinked, she burned brighter. He knew then that she was going some place he could not follow.

He had been called Archangel, but it was she who was made ethereal in that crucible of carnage.

She never showed more than resigned disdain for the Citadel. He found it amusing, in a half-admiring, half-patronising way when he first got to know her. To think a member of an upstart race like the humans not condescend to worship and admire the galaxy’s finest structure! To think she had the courage to do it so openly!

But it was true. She wasn't in awe of it, but rather suspicious of it. She always eyed the keepers warily, as though she expected them to unite and turn on the citizens of the Citadel.

Perhaps she had been right to think that, after all they learned.

And now, the place he had called home—his colourless apartment, his half-hearted friends, his tedious job once all housed there, was going to claim her, when she had once claimed his life from its grasp.

Because he had been rotting away in unhappiness and unfulfillment on the greatest, most bustling settlement in the galaxy.

It was going to open its five arms and embrace her with death.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t feel anything. He left a trail of blood in his wake, he couldn’t stand without the support of Jimmy and Dr. Chakwas, but he didn’t feel anything at all.

Mercifully, he was out, compliments of Dr. Chakwas’ nimble needle, when they made the jump. He didn’t hear her rattling breath over the comms or the silence that followed. He didn’t hear anything at all.

They landed in a jungle, for to say they crashed would diminish the job Joker did to keep the _Normandy_ together. It had been an asari outpost, researching water supplies and sustainability, before the Reapers.

It was empty now.

He and Joker took walks together in silence on that colony, both hobbling at first, though Garrus’ leg healed nicely, only leaving him with an occasional limp. Neither said much. They didn’t have to. The rest of the crew either avoided them or looked upon them with sympathy. Neither of the men seemed to welcome or repel either sentiment.

Manual labour helped. Repairing wiring and hammering out steel helped. Combing over EDI’s code with Tali, looking for a reason as to why she shut down or how to reboot her helped.

Everything helped but sleeping.

He saw her every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes, it was that sunshiny day on Virmire, sometimes her face was superimposed on the victim of a case he once worked, her neck broken and eyes wide and unseeing. Each and every time, it was horrible. He ached, as though for a limb lost. It hadn’t felt like this when she died, the first time. Then, at least, he had known she was really gone. It didn’t hurt like this when she turned herself in. Then, at least, he had known where she was and that she was somewhat safe. It was the unknown that was unbearable. Was she alive and if so was she suffering? If she was dead, how could he face each day of his life without her?

Being on that planet was a bit of a blessing. He, and the crew, lived in a state of suspended animation. They could only focus on repairing the ship and making it to the nearest occupied planet. The constant questions and fear couldn’t be voiced until that happened.

And then, one day, the ship was worthy.

 

* * *

 

Eight months later, he was on Earth once again.

No one was expecting to hear that she was alive. Not even him. But then again, she wasn’t like him and didn’t know how to disobey a bad order.

At the hospital, he found himself suddenly shy, as though he were going to meet her for the very first time. She slept without waking. Even after all those months, her scars were livid, but it was the injuries he couldn’t see that kept her in chemical slumber.

He knew that they were watching his reaction, trying to gauge his happiness and despair. They were still hopeful, the way she was always hopeful. Maybe, when the Crucible fired, it carried out the hope that was always her strength to the remains of the galaxy.

The woman in the room, the ruined shell of glossy pink scars and shattered bones was not Shepard. He could still see the delicacy of her beauty; the fragility of her bones, the translucent pallor of her skin, as though it had been consecrated by that run to the beam.

The hand he held was blue with veins he had once lovingly traced, marvelling at her resilience, at her frailty. Now, he implored the spirits that they would not stop working. That the blue shadows would remain on her hands and eyelids and not creep to her lips. That she would live.

A mellow streak of sunshine splashed across her bed, dimming the monitors and illuminating her exquisitely thin skin. He remembered how she seemed to glow as she ran toward the beam, away from him.

And yet, somehow, they had found each other yet again. Once, the first time, on the Citadel, with her secret smile. Once again, on Omega, her arms inviting him into a hug he would always regret not taking. Those agonising six months when they were worlds apart; and now, in the rubble of Coventry, he held her hand and waited. He knew the odds, but then again, the odds of them ever meeting at all had been one in billions. They had beaten worse odds before. Maybe he had become a betting man.

Or maybe he had found hope.

But, as the days crawled past and nothing changed, a stunning realisation hit him, as though he was struck by one of his own concussive rounds. When the harried, weary doctor finally came to speak to him about her condition, the human faltered over some injuries on the list. When Garrus asked if she was in pain, there was too long a space before the rote response was returned: “We’re keeping her as comfortable as possible.” Wavering hope was dragged down by waves of despair.

They call it extraordinary measures. He knew, for a fact, she didn't want this. But no one has really ever cared about what she might have wanted.

In the long, empty hours on the abandoned colony and shattered _Normandy_ , when there was nothing left to fight or fix and exhaustion refused to claim him, he pored over her stories. Some she had left him after Bahak, with the dog tags and crumpled paper he kept tucked in the wrist of his gloves. Others he found on the datapads she kept by her bed, mixed with reports no longer relevant and plans already carried out.

They were fanciful stories, of a woman who gave birth to war and famine, disease and despair, but above all, hope. Of a tiny girl whom everyone else wished for and wanted so badly that she ran away and died, and her erst-while lover made a harp of her tiny bones and hair. Of a wife who died on her wedding day, and her husband was so determined to have her back that he bargains, cajoles, and begs for her to return to the living, but the embrace of death is still too strong for them both to fight. Of the happy maiden who is forced to become Death’s wife and, though she can return to the living for a short while, she must always go back. Of gods and heroes and men who shine magnificent brightness upon those they meet, fight, and love, but all only live for such a short time and they never belong to anyone, not even themselves.

In all the time he had been there, and for the months he was away, the tubes feeding her with medications to suppress reactions and elicit others remained. Others carried nutrients in and took waste out. They didn’t protest his presence in her room. No one told him not to take her hand with the livid scar running up that arm, or not to touch the face he had memorised. Maybe, now that there was nothing she could do for them, they simply didn’t care.

Her hand was cold, and he knew how much she hated being cold. That she would never be comfortable stretched out on her back like that, instead of tucked up in a ball. There were so many things they had gotten wrong about her, so many stories that weren’t true.

So he took her cold hands in his and told her a tale of his own. Of how they met and the time they spent together, filling in the spaces of when they were apart. He told her of the life they would have had together, if she belonged to herself and not everyone else. The little apartment, because she liked small spaces, in a huge metropolis, because she liked those too. Of the family they would build together, extending upon the one she had built for herself. The fights they would have had, the memories they would share, the way she would look during it all and how he would look at her. How much she would love and how much she would be loved in return.

She was never like him; she could never break a promise, or stand to disappoint, nor could she ever be anything but what was expected of her. But, in the same way stories don't always end the way you want or dare to dream, he knew she would be with him, always.

In the cold grey dawn, he knew what he had to do. As the sky began to brighten the dim room, he gave her one final order, the hardest one to say and the easiest for her to follow.

“It's okay. You're safe now. You did your job. You can rest now.”

It was then, as he had given up hope, that he felt the hand he held curl into his.

It wasn’t instantaneous after that. The doctors didn’t believe him at first, and then, when they did, it was written off as muscle spasms and nothing more. But Garrus knew better.

When he said her name, her fingers would grip his hand. When he told her about the crew and how they had all survived, her eyelashes fluttered. When he whispered how much he loved her, there was an infinitesimal curve to her mouth around the tubes.

The doctors finally took notice and the room became crowded for the first time in the months he waited. It had been nearly a year since she had run away that last time. A spark that he didn’t acknowledge as hope flared in his chest again.

It ignited the first time she opened her eyes and saw his face—his mandibles twitching awkwardly, as though unsure of what to say or do—her tears ran unchecked and unashamed as she gripped his hand as tightly as she could.  It felt as strong as the squeeze of a breeze, but she gave him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his life.

His voice was thick and his subvocals shook, but he flicked his trembling mandibles and said, “So you finally took that nap.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've thanked [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) at the beginning of every chapter, but this one truly marks how much those thanks are deserved. I had every intention of letting Shepard succumb to her injuries, but she encouraged me to let her live. I actually wrote two versions of this ending-- one where Shepard dies and one where she lives. Some_Writer helped me merge the two into something I was happy with, and I hope you guys liked it as well. 
> 
> Thank you so much for coming along on this journey with me. I do have more adventures currently being written for Shepard and Garrus, so stay tuned! <3


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